Samhainophobia
by Urotnik
Summary: The Scarecrow finds refuge in a small community near Gotham. Having been forcefully reminded of his home town, he plans on giving everyone a Halloween they'll never forget... But as he observes the residents, he himself becomes influenced by the town.
1. Taphophobia 1

**Samhainophobia**

* * *

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: My first fic, I hope you'll like it. I certainly had fun making it.  
Samhainophobia is a fear of Halloween.  
Taphophobia is a fear of being buried alive.  
Each chapter is divided into two shorter parts, for easier reading.

* * *

**Chapter One: ****Taphophobia**

Mr Hector Pyckle was not a pleasant man in many ways. He was impatient, greedy and possessed of a smugness which grated on his acquaintances' nerves, even at the best of times. The first impression people got when they met Hector was that of a chubby, pig-eyed man who sweated profusely when upset.  
He was sweating now, the tiny beads trickling down his neck and onto his sensible white shirt.  
However, whatever Hector had previously done in his mediocre life, he did not deserve this particular house guest in his work-room.  
He licked his lips nervously and raised himself self-importantly to his full height, which wasn't much.

'What are you saying, man? D'you think you can just waltz in into my house, wearing that _ridiculous_ outfit and _take_ my money from _me_?' he snorted indignantly.

'Why, yes, I think you'll find that I can', said the Scarecrow.

He was a looming, unnaturally thin form, standing completely still in the shadows, directly opposite the corpulent businessman's desk.

'Well, I won't allow it!' Hector shouted, louder than necessary in the night silence. Perhaps someone would hear him and arrive to help.

'I'm sorry to say that, at this point in our transaction, what you want is of no importance at all. I _will_ be needing your voluntary assistance as to the safe's lock code. Let's spare ourselves any... unpleasantness, shall we?' whispered the rag-faced man.

He took a step forward, his dark coat shifting ominously, and continued:  
'After all, I do believe that the ten thousand dollars in question are merely a bribe from one of your lesser-known associates. Arthur Bailcliff, the building magnate, if my source is correct. It's hardly honest money, wouldn't you agree? Not earned from your toil and, ahah, sweat, certainly.'

Hector leaned backward in his chair, as far away from the figure opposite him as possible.

'No...' he mumbled, 'you must be mistaken, I never...'

The Scarecrow walked over to the man, slammed the briefcase he had been holding onto the desk and opened it carefully. He took out a spray-can.

'As I can see that you are not co-operating, you give me no choice but to persuade you.'

Hector's eyes widened.

'You can't do that to me! I have a poor heart condition!'

'And I have a poor bank account!' the Scarecrow snapped.

'Alright, alright, put that thing back...' Hector wheezed, after a moment's pause.

He had heard what the fear gas did to the human mind and had no desire to see a demonic version of his mother-in-law. He waddled over to the safe and slowly unlocked it. His cheeks burning with regret, he handed the large wad of cash over to the lean creature watching him.

'Satisfied? Now please, _please_ go! And don't you ever dare come back, or I swear I'll call the police! I have highly-positioned friends there!'

'Don't be agitated, Mr Pyckle. I have no intent to return. There's nothing to be afraid of... Except this.'

A short gush of the fear gas suddenly hit a startled Hector.

'Just so you don't decide to call the police as soon as I go. You'll be fine in the morning, trust me.'

Hector stared unmoving at the now nightmarish figure in front of him. The Scarecrow gave him a faint smile.

'Now... All it takes is a little... Boo!'

Hector fainted.

***

The Scarecrow calmly left the unfortunate Hector Pyckle's residence. The rustle of his costume was the only sound on the deserted street.  
He walked slowly, passing rows of identical upper middle-class houses. The Scarecrow felt a furious pleasure at being so close to the ignorant masses no doubt asleep in their homes, unaware of the silent threat stalking their neighbourhood.

After a brief walk, he reached the outskirts of one of Gotham's newer business areas. All was going according to plan. He tried hard not to think of the vast amount of money he'd just acquired. There would be time to gloat at his gains later.  
When he changed clothes and boarded the night train disguised as an average citizen, he could breathe freely again. The Scarecrow now concentrated hard on the sounds of the city. He strained to hear distant police sirens or perhaps the telltale metallic noise of a certain vigilante's grapnel gun hitching onto a wall.

For a while, it seemed that his activities had passed unnoticed, for there was no sign of alert. The Scarecrow's eyes darted back and forth beneath his mask of sacking.  
He stopped abruptly, made a movement as if to readjust his grip on the briefcase and continued walking as before.  
He'd seen something move above him - a mere shadow, but enough to alarm him of a much unwanted presence.

He suddenly turned around a corner and started to run, resisting the urge to glance behind. Gradually gaining momentum, he made a mad dash across the street and into the subway.  
It was empty at this time of night and the echo of his feet in the silence resounded heavily on his eardrums.  
Exiting the subway, the Scarecrow altered his route and took flight in the general direction of the docks. The wind in the straw form of his mask made an eerie whistling noise.  
His long, gangly legs were working to an advantage. It wasn't an elegant gait, but it certainly did the job. If there ever was a natural runner, it was Jonathan Crane. He'd had plenty of opportunities to learn the hard way.

The way led him through several narrow streets. Around him the cityscape changed, becoming less lit with street lighting and cluttered with abandoned and decaying furniture. The Scarecrow dodged the garbage and climbed a stairway to the terrace of a derelict building. No one followed.  
Heart pounding, he glanced at his wrist watch. He could lie low here for half an hour, then change into the suit and make his way to the station discreetly. He patted the briefcase, hardly believing he'd managed to pull the entire business off.

The sooner he left Gotham, the better. Things were getting rather heated recently and he didn't want to be the one suffering the flames.

***

The man known to the wider public merely as the Scarecrow steadied his shallow breath. His protruding ribs heaved and his sides hurt from running. He sat on an empty crate and stared blankly in front of himself, both hands clutching the invaluable briefcase tightly.

A soft rain had started falling and mud had begun to flow in swirls on the terrace. The Scarecrow hated stormy weather on nights when he was working. It made his straw and burlap costume look pitiable.  
He shifted on the crate, looking upwards hopefully, in case the rain looked ready to stop soon.  
Out of the dark, a black figure he hadn't noticed before jumped from the terrace rail towards the Scarecrow.  
He leapt to his feet and turned to face the newcomer. Trust the Bat to ruin his night out...

The Scarecrow stopped dead. This was unexpected.

The Catwoman was standing before him, a wry smile on her face.

***

'Lovely night, Crane. I saw you skulking around when you made a run for it. Very rude. You didn't even stop to say hello... My feelings were hurt. I decided to see what you have that's so valuable, you had to leg it halfway across town to avoid being caught.'

There was a distinct purr to her voice that the Scarecrow didn't like at all. She couldn't know what he'd stolen, could she?  
He sighed. Of course she could. If _he_ had found out about Pyckle's bribe, so could Gotham's underground's most famous burglar. He lied anyway.

'I'd be careful now, if I were you. There are some very nasty new chemicals in here. I was lucky to get them before the police confiscated the rest. They'll only prove useful to me, I'm sure.'

The Catwoman, also known to a select few as Selina Kyle, rolled her green eyes. She'd heard about Pyckle's dealings from the same source, they'd even been obliging enough to tell her that old Bird-Scarer had expressed interest, too.  
She never usually stole from the original thief, preferring to test her own skills in obtaining riches. It was a matter of good sportsmanship.  
Tonight, however, she was willing to make an exception. Apart from the knowledge that it was safe money (the owner would surely never report a stolen bribe), she itched to ruin any plans of crazy Professor Crane. He'd only use the cash to create more of his gaseous nightmares.

Selina flexed her metal claws, fixing her gaze onto the certified lunatic in front of her.  
She disliked the Scarecrow for many reasons, ranging from his repulsive experiments to the fact that his would-be frightening alias hid a very boring, embittered and pathetic personality.  
She took a step closer, homing in decisively for the briefcase.

'Why don't you let _me_ be the judge of who'll find your goods useful, hmm?'

'I-I-I am in a bit of a rush at this time...' the Scarecrow stuttered and moved back to the stairs, revealing a little of his embarrassing Crane personality.

'That's a pity. I'll have to cut to the chase, then!' exclaimed the Catwoman cheerfully, leaping at the rapidly retreating villain.

The Scarecrow took a desperate swipe at her with the briefcase. The Catwoman evaded the blow easily and pulled the briefcase out of his skinny hands, throwing it aside. She struck him unexpectedly and the metal claws tore through the fabric of his costume and into his arms, which he'd lifted to protect his face. His shriek was cut short as he got a punch onto his ribs that made him collapse on the ground. Still sprawled, he tried to regain his breath, but was grabbed roughly by his coat. Lifting him slightly, the woman hissed:  
'Thinking of going somewhere, Crane?'

He felt his mask being pulled off and gazed up at her blearily. He was exposed now and everything was over. So soon, too, despite his high expectations of his ingenious plan.  
Without the mask, the Scarecrow deteriorated into Jonathan Crane, who felt as unintimidating as he looked. He didn't meet the Catwoman's eyes as he muttered:  
'You're taking risks tonight, aren't you? I could give you a hard fight for that money...'  
'Remember', he continued, regaining a little confidence, 'You behold the man behind the Mask of Fear!'

'I doubt it. You see, the man behind this mask', she answered, narrowing her eyes, 'Isn't much of a man at all...'

Selina momentarily felt taken aback at the expressions of shock that flickered across the vaguely rat-like features of Crane's face. He made an ugly grimace, which, for a second, looked as though he would break down sobbing, when a sudden hatred spread over his face.

She was kicked upwards with a force that she'd never credited the Scarecrow of having. It must have been pure rage that propelled him onward, because he advanced regardless of her repeated hits.  
Usually he succumbed to defeat once he was unmasked. The mask was there for giving him self-confidence as much as it was for enhancing the effects of the fear gas.

Selina realised, too late, that gassing her was exactly he was after when he reached into his coat.

The spray caught her right in the face and Selina choked, steadying herself in a corner against a pile of crates.  
The gas distorted her vision and the world swam unpleasantly. In her mind, the crates became coffins, each opening to swallow her. Stumbling backwards, she whispered to herself in the hope that it would release her from the images.

'Coffins are just wooden boxes. They can't hurt you. Pull it together. They're not going to make it your burial right now... Burial. Buried alive. _Buried alive. Buried alive_...'

Crane watched her while he put on his retrieved mask. She was backing away from him and he moved forward, directing her toward a circular hole on the edge of the terrace. It was a large vertical pipe, the kind used as a rubbish chute for discarded building materials.

He shoved her suddenly and she fell down the hole. Her fall was greatly softened by the debris at the bottom, which consisted of damp leaves and rubbish. It emitted the sickening, sweet smell of rot.  
He hoped it would remind her of the open grave she so feared. While she touched the pipe surrounding her in horrified apprehension, the Scarecrow, still scowling, snarled at her:  
'And just for that little remark, _just for that_...'

He placed the cover of a crate on top of the pipe, blocking any light.

'Let's see how you like the dark, shall we? And now, _please_ excuse me, as I really must hurry for a prior engagement... Goodbye.'

The Scarecrow brushed his coat down with his hands, picked up the briefcase and hurried towards the train station. As he went down the stairs, he heard a muffled wail behind him.

'Scaredy cat...' he muttered viciously.


	2. Taphophobia 2

**Samhainophobia**

* * *

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes:  
Samhainophobia is a fear of Halloween.  
Taphophobia is a fear of being buried alive.  
Enjoy!

**

* * *

**

Chapter One: Taphophobia (Part 2)

**  
**The station near the naval shipyard complex was a perfect choice for Crane.  
At one hour past midnight there were few people around, only the late shift industrial workers who were waiting for the train home.  
Crane had quickly changed clothes in a public toilet while passing through the underground and had arrived at the station dressed in an ordinary cheap suit.  
He now stood beneath the roof of the station, reading a newspaper to keep his face shielded from others.

He had picked a good time for his getaway from Gotham City. It was the beginning of autumn and although many people at this season were currently arriving back to work in Gotham, few were travelling in the opposite direction. This actually gave Crane an advantage to go unnoticed, since an alert crowd would sooner recognise him than a few tired workers or drunkards.  
He hoped he looked unremarkable enough to be left alone. He didn't need any more trouble.

At one thirty-five, the train arrived. Crane boarded it and kept his newspaper in front of him while his ticket was checked. After the train left the station, he moved further down into an empty compartment and sat down heavily. He sighed audibly and ran his hands through his unkempt ginger hair. The landscape sped by through the gritty window. Crane saw only the district road which ran alongside the train tracks. The city was already just a mass of lights and smoke in the distance.  
He had made it!

He realised his throat was dry and swallowed, gratitude for being safe sweeping over him. The entire journey across town had proved extremely stressful.  
What would he do now? Going to the nearest larger city was the best option. He now had the money he desired, money he would use for buying all he needed for his experiments.  
Of course, he'd have to take care, staying elusive to the police. A shame, but you couldn't have everything. Having at least something he'd wanted was a novelty in itself.

Crane still hadn't mentally accepted all these revelations. His heart was thumping loudly with excitement, and yes, leftover fear from the night's complications. He embraced both emotions and closed his eyes momentarily.  
He mused on his ambitions. Professor Jonathan Crane would bring the psychology of fear to new levels, making advanced research such as had never been seen before.  
He'd have to do with using lab animals for a start, but luckily, it mattered little, given his chosen subject of research.

Even dumb animals could feel fear; it was considered one of the most basic emotions.  
Certainly by far the most powerful.  
Everyone wished for the so-called positive emotions, yet in Crane's personal experience, happiness was hard enough to achieve and had a nasty habit of petering out the moment he thought he'd grasped it.

Love? Love was a cruelty, the sick little feeling of rejection in his stomach, inevitably coupled with the knowledge of being abandoned, even since his childhood.  
Yet he could trust fear.  
God knew he had a lot of it - enough to share around, as a matter of fact.  
Inner phobias stayed for life, they were always there, to provide motivation and bring a whiff of liveliness into his heart.

He slumped in his seat. The adrenaline was wearing off, he now felt winded rather than elated. Every jolt of the train brought a throb of pain into his muscles. He briefly wondered if the Catwoman was experiencing the same problems. He grinned – she was probably a lot worse off than him.  
Who would have thought she had _taphophobia_?

That being said, Crane mused, you could learn a lot more about a person from their fears than from their hopes.  
He prided himself on being able to have a personal approach to his victims, erm, test subjects. Their plight was never in vain. He remembered it and dutifully recorded it in his notes.  
One day, when he unlocked the secrets of fear, that greatest cerebral activity, they'd all be thanking him. Deep inside, he knew it.

Yes, in his opinion, fear was mankind's greatest asset. Would there be any of humanity's progress without it? Fear of the cold created the first fire. Fear of diseases created medicine. Nowadays, fear of boredom created what, among the common crowds, passed for entertainment.

Crane lifted himself from the seat and walked across the coupé, precious briefcase in hand. He entered the bathroom and washed his arms and face, ignoring the mirror. He was probably a disgusting sight at the moment. Crane winced as the water ran across the scratches he had received. Some were a bit deeper and were still oozing slightly.

One thing you learned while pursuing a criminal career in Gotham City was that it always paid to carry some form of first aid. Especially if you were as prone to cuts and bruises as Crane.  
He placed the briefcase on the sink and clicked it open. He rolled up his sleeve and carefully bandaged his left arm, having retrieved a small cotton gauze.

***

Crane felt uneasy as he finished cleaning his minor wounds. What was wrong? He pricked up his ears, but couldn't hear anything except the train's steadfast movement. It was moving more slowly now as it passed over older railing. Then he understood. The sudden quiet was bothering him.  
Crane closed his briefcase and slipped out of the bathroom. He looked through the window of his compartment and his heart skipped a beat. Outside on the road, the Bat's black vehicle was driving alongside the train.  
Crane swiftly left his compartment, only to see the vigilante's outline through the glass door. Batman was at the beginning of the next compartment.  
The other passengers were sitting in mute awe, the ones nearest to Crane pointedly edging away from the door to his compartment.  
They now knew who was in there. The Dark Knight had found him...

His insides writhing with anxiety, Crane backed away and ran down the corridors, reaching the very last compartment. He circled the confined space, finding no way to escape short of jumping off.  
Clinically insane as he was, Crane still marginally preferred the Dark Knight to Death.  
He shut off the lights and hid behind a seat. He managed to put on his mask in the half-dark.  
At least that way he would have the element of surprise.

Blood pounding to his head, the Scarecrow waited for Batman to enter. When he finally heard the door open, he felt dazed with dreadful anticipation.

'Crane? ' a voice boomed in the dark, 'I know you're here. Release your hostage and come quietly. It's over. Hurting the Catwoman will do you no good now. There's no way out, Crane.'

The Scarecrow opened his mouth silently. This was about _her_, then. The Bat actually thought the Cat had been abducted by him! Time to play a little game... The Scarecrow smiled madly and whispered:  
'She isn't here with me, I regret to say. I _am_ impressed how you located me so soon. Don't come near me, though, or you'll never find your little kitty...'

'Where have you taken her, Crane?' the Dark Knight said, with urgency in his voice.

'_Ding, dong, bell,  
Pussy's in the well._'

'I've no time for your nursery rhymes!' the Dark Knight growled, advancing slowly.

The Scarecrow lifted a long, bony finger for silence. His uncannily thin body stiffened dramatically.  
His eyes were glinting behind the holes in his mask. He paused for effect and continued:  
'_Who put her in?  
Little Johnny − _  
Argh! Don't punch me! This was a very good clue, if only you'd listened carefully!'

'There aren't any wells in Gotham I know of! You're just buying yourself time! Give me straight answers, Crane!'

'Really! Fine, there aren't any wells, but there's a pipe on the terrace of the closed-down match factory. You know it, the one near the shipyard. Understand? She's trapped down there, helpless kitten, alone and frightened...'

'Why did you do it, Crane? What possible gain could you have by this?' the Dark Knight sighed in exasperation.

_'What a naughty boy was that,  
To try to drown poor pussy cat,  
Who ne'er did him any harm..._' the Scarecrow stopped, noticing Batman's expression.

'She insulted me, alright? She said I wasn't... Wasn't a... It was like _all_ those _horrible_ years... She _insulted_ me! Oh, and that was your second clue, right there. Means you'd better hurry as fast as you can before the rain fills the pipe and drowns her.'

The Dark Knight glared at the Scarecrow with distaste. He suddenly grabbed the villain, pulled him onto a seat and bound his feet together with a tight cord. He then opened the side entrance of the train by force. The Scarecrow looked on with confusion. He had no idea what the Bat intended for him. Out of panic, the villain held onto his briefcase as if holding on for dear life. Batman took a firm grip on the Scarecrow and stepped near the edge of the train.

'I hope for your sake that I'll find her unharmed. But I won't be taking chances and leaving you on the train while I search. You'll have to wait for me outside!'

The Dark Knight fired his grapnel gun, lodging it onto a signalling semaphore, and jumped into the air. He dropped the Scarecrow unceremoniously onto the ground as he swung down. Within a minute he was gone, leaping into the passenger seat of the sleek black car which had followed the train alongside. The vehicle drove off with its wheels steaming.

***

The Scarecrow sat on the ground feeling lost and shocked. He'd just been dropped like a sack of flour and was expected to sit tight until he was fetched to be hauled off again to face justice, or whatever passed for it in the social spawn known as Gotham City.  
He embarrassed himself further by taking a few minutes to whimper and sob. Every inch of him hurt.  
He struggled in the mud and managed finally to escape from the bonds on his feet. Even with his scarecrow mask still on, there wasn't a trace of the Scarecrow persona left on Crane now.

He stood up uncertainly on his lanky legs and looked at his surroundings. The rain was still gently falling.

There was only the road next to the railway and fields and fields of... corn. Crane acknowledged the irony with resent.

The smart move would be to follow the road. Only an idiot would try hiding in a field of corn, even if he was dressed as a scarecrow.  
If he limped with persistence, he could make it by morning to the outskirts of the city he'd chosen as his next residence.  
On the other hand, he felt hardly up to it given his current condition.

Crane decided. He walked into the cornfields. When the chase after him was renewed, everyone would assume he was heading toward urban areas. If he moved through the fields, he could reach a barn or something to hide in. He would make his way to the city after they all gave up looking for him.

***

Shifting aside stalks of corn, Crane made his progress through the field. He thought he could see a small light beyond it. He redoubled his efforts and reached the edge.  
Across a local road stood a small house. Crane approached it cautiously. He circled the house and entered its yard through a rusty fence gate.

Just as he'd spotted a possible means of transport, he heard a low growl behind him. Turning his head, he saw a beastly dog, the kind that looked like a cross between a bear and a bulldozer.  
Crane took out the spray-can from his coat very, very slowly.  
He sprayed vigorously behind him and guessed he'd hit his target when he heard a yelp and the patter of running paws.

Unfortunately, that had been the last of his fear gas. He'd have to rely on his wits from now on.  
Crane stole an old bicycle from the yard and took off down the road.

He fervently hoped no one saw him. There'd be no end to it if the Master of Fear and Lord of Despair was caught on a squeaky bike.


	3. Mnemophobia 1

**Samhainophobia **

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: Mnemophobia is a fear of memories. Each chapter is 'dedicated' to a phobia, this particular one is Crane's own.  
_Tattie bogle_ means 'Scarecrow' in Scottish.

Special thanks to _Carycomic_ for the reviews - your associations are hilarious!

* * *

**Chapter Two: Mnemophobia**

Gotham City sprawled across the flat landscape, an industrial center of international proportions, home to of more than ten million inhabitants.  
Tonight, one of them was missing, a police hunt for the individual being carried out in down-town quarters.  
Word had it that the Scarecrow, who had been at large for nearly three months, had assaulted a gentleman in his very house. The GCPD had gladly grabbed its first real opportunity to attempt tracing the criminal's whereabouts.  
They didn't know yet that the Scarecrow had left the city. Only the Dark Knight held this information currently, and he was busy enough searching for someone personally more important to him.  
There was no need for the city to worry, though.  
The Dark Knight knew the exact location of the Scarecrow and it wasn't likely that he was going anywhere, beaten and bound up as he had been left.

Outside of Gotham City, in the western region of the state of Gotham, lay a vast plain which had in recent decades become a patchwork quilt of satellite towns, cross country roads and crop fields.  
Quite imaginatively, it had been named the Gotham Plain.

In the midst of an impressive acreage of corn crops ran the smallest local road in the area.  
On this night, the wind whistled through the corn stalks and the rain drummed an impatient tattoo on the leaves. An occasional owl shrieked as it passed, but apart from that, it was calm. In such weather most creatures stayed hidden.  
An unhappy raven, sitting huddled on a pole, opened a yellow eye warily. The peace of the night was being disturbed by a jarring, repetitive noise.  
The high-pitched creak of a rusty bicycle marked the arrival to the scene of Professor Dr Jonathan Crane, whose luck could not get much worse.

He got off the bike to maneuver around a large puddle of mud, muttering curses under his breath.  
He had just mounted the bike to resume his way, when, without much ceremony, one of the wheels chose that moment to expire.  
Crane screamed vengeance at the sky. He kicked at the worthless thing until some of his fast-accumulating rage was vented.  
Most people would have given up by that point, but if Crane had been the type of person to let despair and cursed luck stop his intentions, he would have jumped off Wayne Industries Tower long ago to spare himself time and energy.

***

He doggedly continued on foot, gritting his teeth. There had to be somewhere to hide in this awful, seemingly unending place, sooner or later he'd reach a form of civilisation. Following the road which was now deteriorating into merely a wide track, Crane spotted a van parked by it.  
That would do fine as well. He peeked through the windshield. Useless, the keys were missing. So was the driver.  
Crane looked around, wondering why they had left. He soon saw a hulking young man kneeling on the grass near the van. Perhaps he felt ill from the bumpy road and had stopped to get some fresh air.  
In any case, the professor came to the sad conclusion that his last chance of escape now lay with hitch-hiking.

Crane approached the youth quietly. He cleared his throat uncertainly and politely asked:  
'Excuse me? Are you feeling alright?'

The man started in surprise and whipped his head around towards Crane. The professor took a step back; the owner of the van stank of liquor and his eyes were slightly unfocused. He was wearing a silly grin on his face and mumbled happily to himself:

'Stuff's good... 'S stronger-er than I th... thought! F'r minute there I 'eard Maggy's scarecrow talkin'...'

Crane looked behind the drunk and saw a real scarecrow placed at the center of the field they were standing in. It was wearing an old pair of trousers and a jolly straw hat.  
He realised too late that he'd forgotten to take his own scarecrow mask off, having gotten so used to having it on.  
The man unexpectedly took hold of his shoulder to support himself and Crane slapped his hand away.

'Get off me, you drunken idiot!'

The man's eyes popped wide open and he gaped like a dead fish. He pointed at Crane, his finger trembling.

'You… You're alive!'

'Of course I'm alive, fool! Now if you could give me a lift to the nearest town, I'd be −'

The man dropped to his knees and grabbed Crane's shirt.

'Don't hurt me! I didn' know you'd come back an' haunt me! I was drunk!'

'What the… Unhand me! What are you talking about?!'

'I'm sorry, I'm sorry! I shouldn't of poured beer all over you last year! An', an' that time Jack and Earl and…' the drunk swallowed nervously, '…me hung you up on the loft, I didn't know…'

Crane pushed the raving drunk away.

'I can see you're ang…angry. Is it the time I was drunk and thought you was a tree and I…'

'Silence!' Crane cut him short and took his sack mask off with one hand, the other outstretched to keep the dreadful man at bay. The big oaf screamed in terror.

It was the first time anybody had been more afraid of Crane's real face than his mask. He felt at a loss what to feel.

'Oh, gawd, you scared me! I thought you were a scare−'

'Yes, yes, I heard your nonsense! Now stop raving, get into the van and take us to whatever benighted town is nearest! On second thought, just get in and let _me_ drive.'

***

Crane drove slowly for nearly an hour across muddy tracks before they reached the first houses. He'd had to press the breaks abruptly at one point, when the brute had threatened to be sick on his beloved burlap mask. He had trouble starting the van afterwards, but the mask had been saved. He'd locked it securely into the briefcase after that.

'Thanks for taking me back to town, man. Dunno how I would have gotten back like this. Oh, gawd, my head hurts...'

'You banged it on the dashboard when you nearly desecrated my belongings. Is there any hotel I could stay in for the night?'

'There's a bed and breakfast down the road. You here for the festival? You sure came a bit early...'

'What? What festival? Oh, that's right. Um, yes, I suppose I am. Never mind. Good night to you, boy.'

Crane left the van and rang the doorbell of the bed and breakfast.  
It took several minutes for an elderly woman to come to the door and let him in.  
He explained he had been caught in the bad weather, as he caught her openly staring at his dirty appearance. Crane signed himself into the register as Jonathan Tattiebogle and hastily retreated into his 'delightfully old-world' room.  
It looked merely old to Crane and as he was not in a delighted mood anyway, he just slumped his messy coat onto a chair before climbing into bed.  
He had hidden his treasured briefcase behind a wooden panel in case the old crone decided to poke her nose into his business. She had seemed the sort.

Crane fell into a deep stupor within minutes. He twitched in his sleep, dreaming of bats and filth, pain and horrifying, delicious fear...

***

Jonathan Crane awoke with a start. He had been dreaming of falling off a speeding train. It took him a few moments to recall the events of the previous night and realise he had actually experienced the nightmare in reality.  
He groaned; his entire body was stiff with dull pain. Some of his muscles that he hadn't even known existed were hurting.

He rose from the bed slowly and was shocked to find his clothes clean and neatly folded on the chair. Someone had invaded his privacy and had sorted through his personal belongings!  
Crane decided he would immediately go downstairs and give the nosy owner of the B&B a piece of his mind. She was the one no doubt responsible for this outrage.

He suddenly remembered to check on the hiding place of the briefcase containing his greatest secrets – the mask and the stolen money.  
Relieved to find the briefcase untouched, Crane clothed himself more calmly.

He had to admit, his shirt smelt fresher than it had in quite a while. It smelt like the nice, clean shirt that deserved to be worn by a man with a doctorate in psychology.

Less driven by rage than a minute ago, Crane descended to the reception desk. He noticed that it was rather dark outside and hesitated to ring the little bell on the desk. Waking the owner before dawn was rather impolite.  
It struck him that shifting through unsuspecting guests' rooms was even less morally acceptable and he rang the bell four times.  
The little woman entered the house from the front porch, holding a mug of tea in one hand. Crane nodded to her and brusquely stated:

'Good morning, madam.'

'It is a good evening, dear.'

'Sorry?'

'You've slept the entire day away. You didn't come down for breakfast and I went in to check on you at noon. I was worried you might have died', she added with a hint of disapproval, as though she considered dying in her establishment a personal offence.

'The entire day? Oh...' A horrible thought struck Crane. He felt panic rise in his insides. He quietly asked:

'Has anyone come asking for me?'

'I don't believe so. Should they have?' The old woman gazed in confusion at Crane through her large glasses.

'No, no, it was just a passing thought. In fact, I expect I'd already know by now if they had. What was it I needed? Yes! You washed my clothes while I was asleep!'

'You're welcome, dear. They were quite muddy, weren't they?'

'Yes. No! I mean, you touched my things without my knowing!'

'Oh, I am sorry. I forgot to tell you that cleaning is included in our personalised service. We aim for a friendly and wholesome atmosphere, y'know. Also, the coat had to be sent to the dry cleaner's. That's not included into the price. You can pick it up tomorrow. I hope it hasn't fallen apart', she sniffed.

'Pray, what did that comment mean?'

'Oh, nothing, nothing, dear.'

'I'll have you know that it's a coat of very good quality. It's...' Crane searched for words to positively describe his patched and frayed scarecrow coat.

'Shabby chic?' The old lady tactfully offered.

'Indeed!' The professor exclaimed. He stood in the hallway, uncertain what to say next. The woman caught his expression and shuffled towards a door in the hallway. She waved at him to follow her into a dining room.

'Here. I could heat up your breakfast now; if you're hungry, that is?'

Crane beamed. He had a small appetite and typically forgot to eat regularly, but right now he could certainly do with some nourishment.

It turned out to be cornflakes.

Jonathan Crane was slightly sick of corn. For some strange reason it always featured largely on his menu at Arkham.  
Perhaps they thought it cheered him up.  
He managed to negotiate for a cheese and tomato sandwich. It was surprisingly rather good.  
He ate it thankfully and retreated into his room, carrying with him some brochures of the local community he had been given.

Crane sat on his bed and read the leaflets, hoping to find out more about his current hideaway.

* * *


	4. Mnemophobia 2

**Samhainophobia**

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: Mnemophobia is a fear of memories. (Y'know, in case you've forgotten. :p)  
_Tattie bogle_ means 'Scarecrow' in Scottish.

_Thanks for all the comments, I'm very grateful for them!_

Trumpeteer34 and Carycomic, I'm glad you liked Crane's bicycle. :D

Trumpeteer34 and Rocku, it is such a compliment to hear that Crane's character is like you imagine him.

Thanks to invisiblehand, I hope you'll enjoy the rest of the story!

_If anyone's following the story so far, I'd love to hear from you! Thanks for reading! _;)

**Chapter Two: Mnemophobia (Part 2)  
**

The regular run of the night's activities in Gotham was being violently disrupted, even by usual standards.  
A large ship had exploded minutes ago, setting fire to parts of the dock. In the center, all hell had broken loose, or at least the part of hell that included some of Gotham's most wanted.

The Riddler, not content with having nearly crashed the Gotham Stock Market some weeks ago, had used his skills to make all traffic signalisation flash on and off, most likely in a complex code. Annoyed and enraged drivers were standing quarreling and waiting for the police to sort out the worst traffic jam in the last ten years.  
Small gangs were using the situation to pilfer goods from halted trucks.

The Joker was nowhere to be seen, but smiles drawn in red paint had surfaced that night on several buildings in the city center. Even now, families could be seen evacuating the buildings, joining the chaos on the streets. Anything bearing the clown's trademark could not be expected to last the night without being blown to smithereens.  
The Joker wasn't technically Gotham's Most Wanted, though; he had long ago gone beyond that - he was Gotham's Most Undesired.

Batman had reached the docks, avoiding with difficulty the teams of firefighters and police gathering at the scene of the explosion. He raced to the abandoned match factory, searching for the pipe the Scarecrow had mentioned.  
Turning over a piece of crate, he saw the pipe underneath. Down below, a small form was curled up in a fetal position.

Batman sighed, equally with relief and exasperation. She was safe, but then again, there was no way she could have drowned in the pipe. The rain poured unhindered through the pipe and into the dock waters. The Scarecrow had lied to him. He reached out towards the Catwoman and was momentarily startled when she whipped her arm upwards and gripped his hand painfully tight. He heaved her up, muttering:

'You're safe now. I heard Scarecrow caught you of guard – are the effects of the toxin fading a little?'

The Catwoman nodded weakly. She barred her teeth and hissed:  
'Bastard! He blocked the opening! I thought I was _dying_ down there...'

'What did you catch him at? Where was he going?'

'I don't know', the Catwoman replied sullenly. 'Look, all I saw was that insane bag of straw running loose over the city and followed him. I thought he might be up to his regular methods of experimentation...'

'You're holding something back from me, I _feel_ it. I'll be talking to you again. Now, I feel there's a lot ahead of me', Batman said, pointing to the flames on the dockside and the semaphore lightshow on display across the bridge.

He'd have to put the Scarecrow on an even longer hold. The professor wasn't a threat at the moment and his City needed him desperately tonight. He nearly felt sorry for the luckless wretch, sitting alone next to the district road. He would contact the police commissioner to send someone to collect the Scarecrow.  
He added as an afterthought:  
'Will you be alright? Do you need help to...'

'I don't need anyone's help! I'm fine now! This was just a short setback!'

'Fine. I still suggest you call it a night after this little setback of yours.'

The Catwoman stared at the ground for a second, before nodding uncertainly. She blushed.

'Look, don't think I'm ungrateful. I just dislike being dependant on others, that's all. As hard as it is for me, I'd like to say thank...'

But he had already gone. She shook her head in resignation. The Catwoman leapt onto the rooftop and made her way across the city's skyline towards her apartment. She wondered about where the Scarecrow had escaped with what should have been her money.  
If he was bright, he'd already be hiding in another large city of a multimillion populace.

***  
The town was Charleston on the Creek, population 1539. It produced corn, home-grown vegetables and hand-made souvenir dolls. The height of its existance was an incident nearly two hundred years ago, when the Main Street bank was robbed and some important officials from Gotham witnessed the later trial. The local historical gallows were almost certainly cursed.  
Today tourists were offered a variety of activities that included nature rambles and sightseeing local landmarks, et cetera, et cetera.

Crane stopped reading and rolled his eyes. Charleston was a dump, the same decaying little town he had grown up in and tried to forget as much as possible.  
It was dead-end for anyone with their senses intact; it was worse. It brought back hated memories.

Crane's fingernails dug into his clenched fists. He stood up abruptly and paced the room in agitation. Why were circumstances always stirring up his past when he greatly wanted to leave it buried somewhere deep in his mind?  
He was a professor of of both psychology and psychiatry, for pity's sake. He knew the techniques to make himself live without the memories. Unfortunately, every once in a while something would come up and bring them all back in a gush. Twice in one day was too much for Crane. Now this entire town took his defences to pieces in one sweep.  
He would have certainly pulled through the momentary lapse, if earlier on the blasted Cat hadn't just _had_ to mock him like all those girls back then.

He remembered them well. The petty cruelties, adding up one by one to reach a new level of humiliation. Their spiteful remarks and the way it was extrodinarily fun to watch him suffer. They were always picking and _picking_ away at his weaknesses, especially the pretty ones, until, the shame, he broke down and cried.  
And then they'd laugh. It was, Crane mused, in a way worse than anything the men and boys had ever come up with. They had at least stuck with less imaginative ways to torment him.  
He snorted in disgust and tried to dispell his train of thoughts.

Glancing at the leaflets again, he got a nagging feeling his brain had missed processing an important piece of information.  
He thumbed through the papers again and suddenly found what he had been looking for. On Crane's face, a wry smile twitched. The festival he was supposedly staying in Charleston for, turned out to be their annual Halloween festival.  
That was interesting in itself, but what really caught his eye was that it was called Charleston's Halloween _Scarecrow_ Festival.  
What were the odds on arriving to this very town, so reminiscent of his own, at this very time?  
It had to be a sign of some unfathomable destiny.

***

Crane leaned out the window and thoughtfully stared out into the street. His hometown had never received proper payback as a whole. That fact had always bothered him.  
The entire system was to blame, after all, not just the unpleasant individuals. Those had gotten what they deserved when he'd developed the first version of his fear gas, years ago.  
Still, bullies were merely products of a collective mindframe and the general tolerance of their behaviour.

In Crane's mind, an unbidden thought formed. He mulled over it, considering all its aspects. The seed of his new idea took root. It was a very satisfactory concept.  
_This_ nasty little town would have to pay dearly for all the misery a similar narrow-minded community had caused him.

On a scientific level, he had an easily accessable population to study, as many local people would gather for the festival. Even better, he had a month to prepare his concoctions and study the inhabitants, gathering relevant information, all in order to gain a representative sample of test subjects.  
The best part, however, was that they'd be completely oblivious to his intentions, until it was too late. He would sincerely enjoy the looks on their faces when pure terror unleashed itself on their very streets. The effects would be greatly enhanced by the Halloween decorations, too.

What else could a man wish for?

Crane grinned to himself, clenching tight the leaflet in his right fist. His eyes burned with fervour. Scarecrow festival, indeed. They'd be getting more than they had ever bargained for, ignorant fools – the man known as Fear himself, the original Scarecrow.  
He would personally ensure that it would be a Halloween they'd never forget...

***

Crane closed the window for the night, new plans and ideas swirling through his head. His heart bubbled with excitement and anticipation. His opportunity of a lifetime, arrived at last! The professor giggled, his mirth turning into a cackle, the cackle exploding into an uncontrolled outburst of laughter.

'Hehehe... Haha ha hahaha! Ha ha ha... Mwa ha haha ha!!'

'Quiet up there!'

A loud noise from below interrupted him. The old lady was banging a broomstick against the ceiling below him.

'D'you know what time it is, young man?'

'Sorry! Sorry!'

Crane continued to snigger quietly into his pillows as he drifted off to sleep.

* * *

Note: Charleston on the Creek is loosely based on St Charles, Illinois, which indeed has a Scarecrow Fest. It's located near Chicago (a city I imagine Gotham would be similar to). I'd love to visit it one day. :D

Now if you twist reality a bit, you can imagine there's a tiny version of St Charles in the Batman universe. ;D


	5. Hypegiaphobia 1

**Samhainophobia  
**

* * *

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: Hypegiaphobia is a fear of responsibility.  
This half-chapter is a bit longer, but I hope it won't be very tiring. ;)

Special thanks to Rocku for such in-depth comments. I'm glad you like the town and Crane's memories. During the story there'll be a few more moments of introspection.  
I hope to continue uploading as quickly. ;)

* * *

**Chapter Three: Hypegiaphobia**

Jonathan Crane awoke the hour before dawn. He felt strange, lying outstretched in the dark. It wasn't unpleasant as such, it was merely odd being surrounded by silence. While living in Gotham, he had gotten used to ordinary background noises such as passing cars and occasional screams.

Not wishing to waste any time in preparing his devious plans for the town, Crane got up, clothed himself and took out his briefcase from its hiding place. He patted the wad of money fondly, but removed only a very small amount, pocketing it with a smile.

He next neatly arranged his most favoured possessions in the world on his mattress: the burlap mask, his little blue notebook and the folder containing the current fear toxin formula.  
The professor leafed through the formula, written in his own code, of course, checking to see how many of the chemicals he might be able to acquire locally.  
He already had the ones hardest to obtain. They were kept in thick vials wrapped in a series of soft material, all carefully stored in a small foam-padded satchel. He checked the vials in case any had cracked during the repeated abuse he had received only a few nights ago.

The chemicals were more fortunate than him; they were completely undamaged, whereas his body still ached when he moved.

He was afraid he wouldn't find some of the chemicals he'd listed. On the other hand, he'd created the first batch in his youth using less perfected means. He'd have to content himself with a slightly degraded version of the toxin, but it would still have its basic trait.

Having carefully returned the various objects back into the briefcase, Crane jotted down a few reminders into his notebook and went downstairs for breakfast.  
The owner of the B&B hovered anxiously nearby in case he needed anything. Unfortunately, all he really needed was to be left alone.  
He finished eating a piece of toast and attempted to slip away unnoticed.  
She blocked his way and looked up at him through her enormous glasses.

'Was your breakfast alright, Mr Tattiebogle?'

'Yes, it was fine, Mrs...'

_'Ms_ Elisabeth Tembrooke. But you may call me Ms Beth. It gives a more homely feel, doesn't it?'

'It does? You may call me Jonathan, I guess. _Professor_ Jonathan.' He puffed his thin chest out.

'Oooh, now there's a thing; a _professor_, eh? Are you here on holiday, Professor? I do hope you'll enjoy our picturesque town.'

'Yes, indeed. In fact, I'm here to complete a study of mine. I started the initial experiments at Gotham University, but I believe that a peaceful surrounding will provide just as much success.'

He neglected to add that he had been fired from the University of Gotham for frightening and endangering students, but that was a minor detail in his eyes. Crane was about to leave when Ms Beth coughed behind him.

'As a professor, I'm sure you'll be able to pay in advance for the entire week?'

Crane glared at her and grated:  
'Certainly...'

He counted out the cash, noting how the old woman's eyes glinted at the sight of the money.

'Oh, and the extra price for the cleaning and taking your coat to the dry cleaner's, if you please, dear.'

_Seemingly senile, she's as sharp as a knife, that one,_ he thought.

She furtively counted the money again behind the reception desk and nodded once in satisfaction to him.

'I hope you have a nice day in town, Professor', she said smugly as he left.

'And I hope a great big house falls on _you_, you wicked old witch', muttered the man known as the Scarecrow as he walked towards the dry cleaner's to pick up his coat.

***

'I must say, mister Tattiebogle, I've never had such a dirty thing before; it wasn't half a job, getting it clean', the dry cleaner stated, after Crane had paid him.

'It's Professor Tattiebogle, thank you very much. I appreciate your efforts.'

'What've you been doing, Professor? 'Ere, there were grass stains, mud stains, for a minute I even thought I even saw blood stains...' The old man glanced at Crane through narrowed eyes, blowing a puff of cigarette smoke towards him.

'Field research. It's so difficult to get people to co-operate these days. Goodbye, sir.'

Crane left the building hurriedly. He mentally noted down Thomas Grentley, the charming proprietor of Quick Clean, as one of the first subjects to experiment on.

He spent the next hour at various locations around the little town, buying simple articles necessary for his toxin. This included a visit to the pharmacy, local self-service shop and tiny agrocenter. The man at the agrocenter could be excluded from his experiments for now, as he had been very polite and helpful.  
In a rare stroke of luck, he managed to obtain all he needed.

On the way back to the bed and breakfast, Crane stopped at a diner to have a quick lunch. He also needed to gather his thoughts and plan his next step.

He took a seat in the corner and put his bags on the seat opposite him. He scribbled a general layout of his plan into his blue notebook, having ordered his meal from a waitress with a big white grin which, had it been any wider, would have made the top of her head fall off.

Crane stopped in his brainstorming to inspect his meal when it was served.  
He gently lifted the top off a hamburger with his pencil, a sceptic frown on his face.

'Hey! No need for that! I swear I just made it...'

He glanced upwards at the waitress. The girl was standing with her hands on her hips, a slight pout on her face. Crane just stared back at her impassively. She was confused when no retort arrived and mumbled:

'Hmph. Weirdo.'

She pursed her lips and, with a sweep of her hand through her blonde hair, turned on her heel and strutted off towards other customers. Crane licked his finger, turned a page in his notebook and jotted down 'Maggy the Waitress' underneath the name of Thomas Grentley.

His black list of people he dearly wanted to gas would soon be full at this rate.  
He wrote down a general impression of Maggy next to her name. She was most likely a typical young female in a community such as Charleston.

If she'd been his generation and born in his town, she'd no doubt have been one of the bullying popular girls.  
Vain, not very bright and dealing with uncertainty by displaying arrogance.  
He would need more details to prognose a reaction to the fear gas, but he hazarded a guess at her screaming about being overweight, possibly also hallucinating insects or some other common fear.

Crane pondered his methods of gathering information while he munched the burger, which was of passable quality.

At one end of the diner, the waitress and a few youths were whispering and one gave the professor an ugly look. Crane remembered how much he hated teenagers.  
It had caused him trouble while he was working at Gotham University, where it had been inevitable to cross paths with the younger students.

He made a fresh note to include more of the young adult populace into his survey of fear. Wiping his lips fastidiously with a napkin, Crane got up and trudged over to pay for his meal.  
He certainly didn't plan to leave a tip.

***

Bruce Wayne, known to most as the Batman while on his peculiar night shift, was deeply annoyed. The previous night had turned into a series of wild goose chases.  
He pondered on all that had gone wrong as he sipped a mug of strong coffee in his armchair.

_The explosion of the ship had been the inside job of a desperate shipping company.  
One of the managers had wished to use the possible insurance to repay his department's debts and avoid getting fired. Needless to say, he would now be unemployed and serving a few years at Blackgate Penitentiary._

_The Riddler had been ignored for the time being, as Batman raced to find the Joker before he blew up the buildings he'd marked.  
In the end, the evil maniac hadn't even turned up. He was probably curled up fast asleep somewhere in the Narrows. Even maniacs stayed at home in this weather. Only the goddamn Batman was stupid enough to spend the night on the streets._

_Batman gritted his teeth. The downpour had drenched him and he found himself wishing a small explosion had occurred, just to give him a purpose to be standing there.  
That was a worrying train of thought.  
He shook his head distractedly and the streamlets of rain running down his mask poured onto his face._

_In any case, he hated having his time wasted, when he could be doing useful work for the city, or even, fate forbid it, having a little time for himself._

_What had been the last straw was the information that a police officer, whom Jim Gordon had sent to fetch the Scarecrow, had returned empty-handed.  
The villain had apparently wriggled free of his bonds and was now missing again. The rain had washed away any traces as to where he was heading.  
The police assumed he had either returned to Gotham or had found a hideout in a nearby city._

_Batman hoped he had returned to his city, as finding him again would prove difficult if he was on new territory._

Bruce Wayne returned mentally to the here and now.

He would spend the evening deciphering the Riddler's semaphore clues and hopefully find a means to use the information to find the green-clad man.

With him locked safely up, a little of the pressure building up in the city could ease down.

If he found spare time and no dire complications arose, he would seek out Hector Pyckle, the Scarecrow's latest victim.  
There was something about the whole case that was being kept from the police.

Pyckle had insisted the Scarecrow had taken nothing from the house after gassing him, but Gordon had doubted the truth of this. Crane wasn't partial to spraying people without attempting to gather materials for his tasteless study of humankind. The only reason he'd waste the gas was if he was 'gathering funds' to finance his dangerous chemical cocktails.

The logic conclusion was that Pyckle was lying, though exactly what he wanted to keep secret, remained unknown to Gordon. The police commissioner had questioned Batman about the businessman's possible dealings in illegal activities, but the vigilante knew only as much as he did.

Batman had remembered though, in retrospection, that the Scarecrow had been clutching onto a briefcase on the train. It probably hadn't contained just a toothbrush and his favourite pyjamas.

Jim Gordon could do nothing to examine Pyckle's case more thoroughly, as the man was considered merely the hapless victim.  
However, the Dark Knight could employ a more intimidating tactic to find out what the fat businessman was hiding.

Soon Hector Pyckle would be getting another unwanted guest in his work-room.

***

Crane made his way slowly down the streets, towards his current residence.  
He was holding the bags of various chemicals carefully, thinking about where he would carry out the process of mixing a new batch of the fear toxin. His tiny room in the bed and breakfast seemed highly inappropriate.  
As he walked along the main street, he saw a small group of young men heading in his direction. A few of them were smiling grimly.  
This did not bode too well.

He decided to ignore them entirely, in the hope that this would sufficiently rattle their self-confidence to leave him alone. He frowned when one of them gently took hold of his shoulder as he passed.  
Crane stopped and turned slowly towards the gaggle of irritating youths.

The individual who had blocked his way stood in front of Crane with his hands on his belt. He was a very strong-looking fellow, but failed in his attempt to loom menacingly, as he was shorter than Crane by nearly a head.  
In spite of this fact, the Master of Fear mentally gave him a point for trying.  
It wasn't his fault, really it wasn't. Few people could top Crane's six feet of height, even though it admittedly gave him an ungainly appearance.

He guessed the young man's name to be Earl or Duke or Samson, one of those vaguely embarrassing names, which nevertheless gave a mental image of someone who could open beer bottles with their teeth. This one seemed like a refined version of the archetype, as he was neatly combed and dressed in a manner he probably considered was darkly stylish.

Crane looked down at him, with some satisfaction that he could do so. He took in the boy's leather coat and sunglasses with mild disdain. The boy resolutely looked straight back.  
He poked the thin professor in the chest, inadvertably prodding his ribs.

'Listen, Professor. We're all friends of Maggy's, and we don't like your attitude. She was very upset at the diner. You think you have a right to treat us like we're some hillbillies or something, just because you have yourself a fancy job in the city?'

'What? Don't be ridiculous, boy. How could I possibly treat you in any fashion, if I haven't even devoted a moment's thought to you? I've plently of other business on my mind, let alone to start worrying about the over-sensitive feelings of a waitress and her little friends.'

'Don't judge us, you stuck-up idiot. You don't know us', the young man snarled and cracked his knuckles together.

'Of course I do. I'm a psychologist. Let me see if I can make an overall assessment.' Crane put down the chemicals to one side and stepped into the small semi-circle of boys.

'What's your name?' He asked the muscled youth.

'Earl.'

'Go figure. Let's see... Ah. You're the one that they all admire for, yes, I think it is safe to say, for being able-bodied at sports. I suppose you're not a very good student. The talk is, you'll get a scholarship for playing in whatever team they have over here. I'm sorry to say, you'll probably be passed over in favour of someone from a bigger town...'

'Hey! Now look here...'

'You wish you had a expensive car, Earl, but unfortunately it'll prove impossible with the shopkeeper's wages you're destined for. Your biggest fear is ending up spending your entire life here, just like your parents.' Crane turned abruptly to the next teenager.

He grinned sheepishly back and Crane recognised him as the drunk whose car he'd used to get back to civilisation.

'You... You're the guy who I drove back home. You were too drunk to stand! Hmmm... You're interesting. You are afraid of a lot of things. Making decisions. Standing up for your own opinion. Getting sober for once and taking responsibility. Automatophobia in traces, too.'

'Huh? What's automatophobia?' The youth was blushing furiously.

'Fear of animatronic creatures. Ones that seem real in a way, but only copy life. Puppets. Dolls, dummies.' Crane smiled a thin, knowing smile. 'Scarecrows, too.'

He turned around towards the others, warming up to his subject.

A square-jawed man edged away from him. He didn't want an accurate description of himself in front of his friends, especially after watching Earl and Andrew redden up to their ears.  
Crane took a step forward and at that moment the situation took a turn for the worse. The threatened youth took a swing at the professor with his fist.

To his surprise, the professor deflected the blow with ease. As Earl and another man advanced towards him, Crane realised something.  
This group of men did not intimidate him in the slightest.  
They did represent in his eyes, in a way, the bullies who'd first broken his frail spirit in his youth, but he'd moved on a lot since then. He was now used to making adult thugs scream for their mothers while exposed to the toxin.

Crane shifted to the side as Earl tried to punch him, making the youth stagger, the force of his blow wasted into thin air.

He'd confronted some of Gotham's finest police force units and had dealt with some of the city's deadliest villains. The Scarecrow held a sinister reputation on the streets.

Crane swung round and blocked a hit from one of the men, hitting back with a well-placed kick.

He'd fought both the Batman and the Joker. Not at the same time, of course. Truth be told, he'd been beaten half to death with a chair by the Joker and the Bat had left his own fair share of bruises on Crane's body, but it was the solid facts that counted.

As he generously shared out a few punches, the weekend alcoholic called Andrew, who'd been standing uncertainly to the side, decided to call it a day and ran away.

Crane was one of the physically weaker criminals of Gotham, but he knew enough of hand-to-hand combat to hold his own in a fight.  
He'd learnt the crane style of kung fu and was skilled with a scythe. Few people found that out, though.  
The problem was that most of his opponents used superiour weaponry or brute strength. In this brawl, however, his knowledge of various fighting techniques came into full use.

Crane leapt to the side and crouched slightly, waiting for one of the men to advance. They kept their distance, looking rather unnerved by the professor's display of aggression.  
It was the surprise that stopped them more than the pain. They hadn't ever counted on him punching back.  
Earl bit back his pride for once and buried the hatchett.

'Nice work, man. Didn't mean it to come to this at first, y'know...'

He nodded respectfully and slowly retreated. The others gratefully followed him.  
Crane watched them until they had gone far enough down the street and then picked up his bags. He gave a snort of dismissal to the group in the distance.

This had felt rather good.  
Not to mention that he'd done it all as Jonathan Crane, not as the Scarecrow, who had an easier time frightening off people.


	6. Hypegiaphobia 2

**Samhainophobia**

* * *

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: The next chapter will be devoid of action. You can sit back and enjoy the character interaction instead... ;) A question if you're interested: Would you prefer the forcoming chapter divided into three smaller parts, or two slightly-larger-than-ordinary parts?  
Thank you all for the reviews and comments, they really make my day! ^^

_To Trumpeteer34:_ I'm glad you liked the parallel scuffle and thoughts... And the waitress bit, I couldn't resist it.

_To Carycomic:_ I don't know where you keep all these ideas! :D I liked the info on Kane's Manhattan Island (must have been a tough place!) - I myself mentally mix up New York, Chicago and some European architecture. Also, I hope you'll find more parts that will be serious and with humour, if I pull them off in a satisfactory way, of course. D:

_To Rocku:_ I'm very pleased the chapter was fun to you! I like how you analyse the Crane character, he really ought to function in the way you describe him, very logical assumptions. Also, the waitress and the drunk guy will return later on. Poor Scarecrow! Or perhaps poor them?

* * *

**Chapter Three: Hypegia****phobia (Part 2)**

Having finally reached the bed and breakfast, Crane was unamused when he found no trace of Ms Beth Tembrooke. She was supposed to give him the key to his room back. He placed the bags on a table and walked around to the back of the house.  
He came out on the back porch, where the sunset burned into his eyes. He blinked in the light, taking in the landscape. The back yard looked onto a field of corn, the glow of the dying sun colouring it bright red. Several crows flew past him and landed on a gaunt scarecrow silhouetted in front of the field. Crane gazed onto the scene appreciatively.

'Beautiful, isn't it? D'you like the scarecrow, Professor? I'm thinking of entering it into the competition for Halloween. There'll be at least one in every field by then.'

Crane looked sideways at Ms Beth, who was sitting in a rocking chair and smoking a pipe. Her round face was glowing contentedly in the dusk.

'Yes, I think you should. Still, it could use a bit more work.'

'In what way?'

'Make it more frightening. It looks nice, but it's far too friendly for Halloween.'

'Scarecrows are meant to look amiable, though, aren't they?'

'No. Trust me when _I_ say it, _scarecrows_ are definitely meant to be _scary_. Would you mind if I sat down for a minute?'

'Not at all. I'm expecting Grentley and his boy over soon. Maybe Hugh will come along, too. We play cards in the evening, when the weather's fine. You can stay, too, if you like', she added as an afterthought.

Crane bit his lip. He considered saying he was ready to go to bed, but the idea of learning more about his future test subjects appealed to him. He smiled at the old lady and leaned back in his wooden chair.

'Tell me, Ms Beth, is there any secluded facility in town I could temporarily set up a work-room in? It is vital for expanding on my thesis, but it would necessarily have to be a quiet spot. I prefer to work without interruptions.'

'What did you have in mind? We could ask Hugh if he'll help. I'm sure he'd be pleased to know you picked Charleston for your studies. Hugh Bentle's the mayor', she announced proudly.  
Ms Beth blew a cloud of fume from her pipe. They sat in silence for several moments, when she snapped her fingers and took an object out of a tin box next to her. Crane looked at her, his eyebrows raised questioningly.

'Do you smoke at all, Professor?' She asked, offering him a smaller pipe.

'No, thanks. I find it a risk in my chosen profession. I have a set of work clothes that is highly inflammable, you see.'

***

Hector Pyckle braced himself against a wall. He nervously ran his chubby fingers over the dome of his head, a habit kept from the happier times when he'd still had hair. His heart was racing and he shakily poured himself a glass of sherry to calm his nerves.  
Hector sat in his expensive black leather armchair and wiped the sweat from his brow and neck. He downed the sherry in one gulp and stared at the room in stupor.  
The blasted Batman had really gotten to him. Hector swore off any double-dealings and little jobs on the wrong side of the law from now on. He'd do anything to keep his record clean, if it meant the Bat would never, ever come to his house again. Hector didn't fancy dangling upside down from his balcony again.

Across the street form Hector's house, Gotham's vigilante drove slowly in the direction of one of the City's less elite residential areas. This night had begun with a success. He had finally cracked the Riddler's code and hoped to find him in a few hours, tampering with the security system of Daimatea Labs. The clue within the riddle had suggested his next moves. As he'd had spare time, Batman had decided to pay Pyckle a visit first.

Ten thousand dollars! The cash the Scarecrow had stolen was dirty money, no doubt turning itself at this very moment into canisters of fear gas. What worried Batman was that there was no trace of the Scarecrow's business, no signs of his presence within the underworld of crime. This raised the issue of finding him before he took the citizens of Gotham, or nearby cities, completely by surprise.  
But as to how he could achieve this, the Dark Knight as yet had no clue. He dreaded at the thought of what horrifying activities the Scarecrow could be up to at this very minute.

***

Jonathan Crane scratched his chin. He'd backed out of playing card games and was now watching the other three players interact. There was a lot to learn about subjects from careful observation, especially when they were at ease. He'd bet anything that his current landlady would win. She was a poker-faced player if there ever was one.  
Professor Tattiebogle had been introduced to Mayor Bentle, who was a sturdy man of about fifty and had insisted on being called Hugh. Crane had been just as insistent on not being called 'Johnny'.  
A consensus had eventually been reached and Ms Beth's visitors now called him either Jonathan or simply the Professor. He could live with that, and more to the point, so could they.  
Crane left the terrace for a few minutes to diligently place his new materials for the toxin in his room. Upon returning, he saw Grentley the dry cleaner cough uncomfortably while looking at his own cards. Crane smirked. Someone clearly had a fear of losing. An interesting fact to note.  
Behind him stood Grentley's son, the unfortunate Andrew. Surprisingly, the boy had been quite excited to see Crane again. He had babbled happily to his dour-faced parent about how the Professor had put Earl in check. From what much Crane could comprehend, Andrew didn't remember specifically that Crane had been in his Scarecrow mask when they'd first met, but he did recall the Professor being 'real scary'.  
Crane walked over to the boy with an easy gait. He leaned against the wooden rail of the terrace and turned his head slightly to Andrew.

'Been living here long, Andrew?'

'Oh, yeah, sir. All my life!'

'So... Been drinking long, Andrew?'

The young man reddened and intensely looked at his own feet.

'No, sir. Look, my dad doesn't really know all the stupid stuff I've been doing. I'm hoping to stop messing around soon, though.'

'Hmmm. What do you intend to do, precisely?'

'Um, I dunno _exactly_. I reckon something'll turn up. I'd really love to get a job in the City! I could work for a newspaper, I did a course in photography last year. Or maybe in an office for a public agency. Tell me, Jonathan, is Gotham as they say? I've only been a few times...'

'I suppose it is. Look, boy, you can't merely _expect_ a solution to turn up. You won't get a job without doing anything by yourself. I worked hard for my doctor's degree in psychology, I spent _years_ of research and experimentation on my, ah, works... You, you just sit there, doing nothing, and think about how it would be like to theoretically achieve something. What you might have is _hypegiaphobia'_, Crane said and, with a glance at Andrew's clueless expression, added dully,  
'That's a morbid fear of responsibility.'

'Oh. Well, um. Maybe you're right, doc.'

Andrew frowned and tensely looked across the corn field. Crane glanced at the scarecrow. It really needed a makeover, that smiley face it had was a disgrace.

'Hey, Jonathan? I've mentioned your enquiry to Hugh here, could you come?' Ms Beth called over to Crane. He arrived swiftly and sat on a bench next to old Grentley, who was muttering to himself about losing to a woman who knew nothing about cards. Crane's upper lip curled in vague amusement.  
Ms Beth leaned toward the professor, one hand holding her pipe and the other beckoning him closer in a conspiratory fashion. She placed the pipe between her teeth in the edge of her mouth and said in a slightly muffled voice:  
'Y'know that work space you said you needed? Well, we think we've found just the thing. Only problem is, you wouldn't be supposed to go there, so you'd have to keep quiet. It wouldn't normally be a big deal, but we'd be going somewhat against current politics.'

'I'm good at being very discreet with my preliminary research. What did you have in mind?'

'Charleston High School. Been shut down this year', grunted Mayor Hugh in reply. He took a swig of drink from his glass:  
'Apparently, the expenses of running the place have made it insufficiently worthwhile to keep open. Small matters: roof leaks, old windows, the works. Not covered by the town's budget. We've had a rough few years, speaking in business terms. '

Grentley nodded and extinguished his cigarette end by pressing it very heavily on the ash tray. Hugh continued:

'But that's not the main reason for shutting down the school. Gladston, that's locally the biggest town in these parts, emphatically insisted on it, as it suits them to undermine us in every way. Kids now go to school over there. This is what it starts with. In ten, twenty years, there'll be nothing left in this town. Then the Gladston corporations will move in and all that'll be left of this place will be the fields and granaries. They bring money. Schools don't.'

'How unfortunate! You propose I use the empty school, then?' asked Crane without paying much attention to the tale. In afterthought, he should have. He'd have learned the truth about the Charleston collective psyche sooner. Currently, he was interested only in obtaining a workspace to complete his toxin in secrecy.

'Yes. Gladston wouldn't like to know we'd opened the place up for scientific research. It'd seem like we were opposing them. So long as you pretend you're going there without our prior knowledge if you're asked, we're letting you put the old place to some use.'

Crane bowed his head slightly in acceptance.

'Thank you, Mayor Bentle', he said with genuine gratitude. These fools didn't know what they were doing to themselves, but Crane was glad of their naïveté.

'You're welcome, Professor Tattiebogle', stated Hugh formally, a wry smile playing on his lips. 'I just hope you'll make us famous with whatever you're doing...' he added as a joke.

'Oh, I'm sure everyone will remember Charleston after my work is done', smiled Jonathan Crane thinly in return, a dark feeling of pleasure rising in his chest.

* * *

Note: I spelt Jonathan's hated nickname as 'Johnny' on purpose. Perhaps it's because I'm not a native speaker or something, but I simply can't spell 'Jonny'. It _is_ the correct way, but it just doesn't _feel_ right to me (I keep returning the H back). D:


	7. Athazagoraphobia 1

**Samhainophobia**

* * *

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: Athazagoraphobia is a fear of being forgotten or ignored or forgetting. It is the longest and oddest sounding phobia I'll be using for a chapter title.  
I probably brutally ruined the real facts of Crane's childhood story for this one. I tried to insert something simplified for the scene.

Thanks for every single comment, I must have some of the best and nicest readers out there! Thanks for putting so much into your comments, it's joy to know there are people out there reading this.

To Trumpeteer34 and Rocku: I'm glad you liked the scenery at the end of the last chapter. By coincidence, there's another one in this chapter, too.  
To ColinatorGX: Thanks for the great comment, I enjoy Crane's complicated psyche, too.  
To AZ-woodbomb: I'm glad you liked the fisticuffs scene, there won't be such similar situations for now, but as Crane has a way of building up negativity around him...  
To Carycomic: I've said it before, I'll say it again. Your comment is pure awesomeness.

* * *

**Chapter Four: Athazagoraphobia**

Ms Elisabeth Tembrooke walked through the front door of her establishment and took off her muddy wellington boots in the hall.  
She had already been to the shop in the morning and had now been feeding the chickens. She put on her sensible black shoes and draped a drab shawl around her shoulders.  
The wind was howling outside today and it reached right into her rheumatic bones.  
Walking slowly towards the kitchen, she heard a consistent knocking noise coming from outside. Ms Beth made her way to the porch and stood on the grass in the backyard, leaning against a tree. Her lips smiled in private amusement.

Professor Tattiebogle was fixing her scarecrow.

Jonathan Crane hammered down the last nail into the wooden plank which held the scarecrow up.  
He had clothed the thing in dark rags, instead of the faded overalls it had been wearing prior to his interventions. Next he'd reinforced the structure and had made the bodywork more intimidating, its arms outstretched and its cape billowing in the wind.  
The last improvement had been the sack face.  
Crane had gone through an awful lot of burlap masks in his criminal career, as they were often destroyed, lost or taken away from him during arrest. He knew how to make himself a new one with commendable speed and had tried out many different designs, attempting to find out which one was considered the scariest.  
He'd put a few moments' thought into this one and had settled for a stitched smile and eerily cut-out eyeholes. He finally attached an old straw hat he'd burnt the edges off, for that extra creepy effect.

He stood back several paces to admire his handiwork.

Ms Beth looked on at the scene.  
The professor had been staying at her bed and breakfast for over two weeks now. He'd been getting more and more intense about his work lately, but he'd still insisted on finding time to help her make a better scarecrow for the festival. **  
**The old woman grinned to herself. The thin professor was standing across the field in his old coat, watching the scarecrow in its ragged clothes.  
At this distance, the two looked one and the same, two gangly scarecrows having a showdown under the noon sun.

Ms Beth waved over to Crane, walking toward him and clapping loudly.

'Well done! I say, it looks completely different now. I'm a little sorry for the old one, it was a happy old thing!'

'This one's more effective, though, don't you think? I can bet no one here has a scarecrow quite like this one, Ms Beth!'

'Effective? Oh, that it is. Very disturbing. It'll do its job well, I should think!'

'What job?'

'I reckon the kids next door'll think twice before coming here to steal my apples again!' she laughed nastily.

She clapped Crane on the back jovially and winked at the scarecrow on her way back to the house. As she stepped back onto the porch, she called out behind her:

'Coffee before going to the lab, Professor?'

Crane looked up from where he was kneeling on the floor, packing away his equipment. He needed to check the progress of the toxin today, but he would first make another digression.

There was always time for coffee, here.

***

The recently abandoned school was in desperate need of an airing; it smelt faintly of damp and dust.  
Crane felt odd walking down the corridors, the ringing noise of his footsteps breaking the silence. In a sense, he felt himself an unwanted presence. He and his toxins didn't belong in these hallways, which were supposed to be filled with crowds and mindless chatter.  
The absence of any noise always grated on his nerves after a while.  
Reaching the basement level, Crane entered the school laboratory, where he had set up the basis for his chemical production process. He unlocked a cabinet and carefully took out different bottles and vials. He kept all the components under lock, in case anyone else came nosing around and stumbled upon his dirty little secret.

He arranged all the materials neatly onto his work surface and proceeded to gently heat up a vial of watered-down enzymes. He was preparing to synthesize the corticosteroids necessary for fear to be induced by the gas.  
They were naturally produced by the human body to react to stress; however, Crane needed to create them in artificial conditions. The reaction he would cause in order to produce the corticosteroids would be catalysed by the enzymes.

Afterwards, he cleaned up the vials. The mixture of corticosteroids was placed into a cool box and locked safely into a metal drawer. In a few days, he would have the first batch of fear gas ready for testing and, eventually, usage. He planned on obtaining a few mice which he could observe after they inhaled the toxin. If they didn't drop dead and were suitably terrified, he would consider the batch completed. After all, he'd gone through the formula so many times, he was already certain of his success.

Crane slowly ascended the school stairway, revelling in the feeling of anticipated accomplishment.  
An old newspaper was swept across Crane's path. It was the 'Charleston on the Creek Chronicle', no doubt. They didn't supply Gotham daily papers here, a fact Crane was grateful for. He didn't want the Scarecrow's face on the Wanted page to turn up.  
He strolled down the avenue leading from the school, the trees on each side of the way swaying in the wind. Dead autumn leaves whipped around Crane's lanky legs and he shuddered, tugging the collar of his coat up.  
He took the shortcut through the cornfields, hoping to reach home before the brewing storm hit the landscape. In the distance, the sky burned orange, flanked to the west with darkening clouds.

Crane stood in front of the improved scarecrow for several moments.

The air was fresh in his nostrils, the atmosphere tense, accumulating the energy of the oncoming storm. He stretched his arms wide apart, imitating the straw man. Crane felt extraordinarily pleased, full of the power that would soon be in his grasp.  
He'd found the perfect place to draw upon his self-confidence, he belonged here and now. Crane smiled widely, his face upturned towards the sky. A few droplets of rain pattered onto his face and he opened his blue eyes wide.  
For the first time in a long, long time, he felt calm and contented. He only hoped that it would last.

***

Ms Beth fussed over Crane as he was drying his hair out with a pink towel. He'd arrived completely drenched from outside, but he seemed perfectly happy.

'What were you thinking, Professor? Look at the weather outside! You'll get pneumonia now and we'll have to get someone to drive you over to the doctor, and let me tell you, it's no short drive, ever since the Doc closed his practice here, I don't −'

'Shhh. You're ruining the moment.'

'What?'

'Everything's fine now. I know exactly who I am, what I'm going to do, my success lies clear ahead of me!' He waved his hand expressively in the air and leaned back in the living room sofa he was occupying.

Ms Beth's mouth opened in surprise; then her old face wrinkled in a grin. The Professor, it seemed, was near to discovering whatever he'd come to study in Charleston. She sat down next to Crane and nudged him slyly.

'Go on, tell us what your big experiment is all about...'

'It's all about fear.'

'Fear?'

'Yes. Sooner or later, everything is. And there will be justice, too. People talk about mercy, but it's justice that's lacking in this world. Justice needs to be served, even after years of wrongful treatment, don't you think?'

'Why, I suppose so! What're you planning, Jonathan? It's a work of psychology, isn't it? What have you found out? Who'll be afraid, who will get justice?'

Jonathan Crane smiled grimly at the old woman. He muttered:

'Why, the entire town will get what it deserves.'

Old Ms Beth's mind raced. She didn't for a moment suspect the strange look in the professor's eyes.

She knew that he was here for a reason. Not a mundane reason, either.  
He'd admitted one day that he had arrived to this particular town by mere chance. Ms Beth was a religious woman. She didn't believe in chances.  
She knew now, just knew, that Jonathan had been sent to help the town. He'd discovered something scientific here, he would make a name for Charleston. The politicians and landowners of Gladston would all be afraid. Their plans for the area would be shattered, as Charleston, the eternal underdog, finally got some recognition and justice!  
Ms Beth wrung her hands in excitement.

'You're going to be famous! And the town where it all started, too. And no one will ever, ever be forgotten now...'

Crane cocked his head and frowned.

'What are you talking about? Who was going to be forgotten, Ms Beth?'

She blushed crimson and fiddled with her shawl, avoiding Crane's observant glance.

'No one. I was just being silly, that's all.'

'No, no, I'm curious to know now...'

'It's just that I'm... I'm getting old, Jonathan. The Tembrookes have lived here for generations. Now there's only me and my late sister's family, over in Gotham. I've showed you pictures, I think. They visit sometimes, but they're very busy people, you see. I do have friends here, but they'll all move away if the bad situation continues. There's not much work, and since this year, no school or doctor...' Ms Beth swallowed hard. Outside, the rain beat heavily on the windows.

'Pretty soon things will get worse. People will move out, the ones who stay... I know how it goes. People get bitter when they can't change things, Jonathan. They get edgy, intolerant of each other. Am I making any sense?'

Crane looked thoughtfully in front of himself. He finally spoke after a short while, his voice sounding distant:

'I understand. Bitter, frightened people snap easily, don't they? They tear at each others throats, they ridicule each other... Especially those who're too weak to fight back...'

'Yes, that's the truth. Oh! I'm sorry for burdening you, you're not used to listening to an old woman's worries...' Her quavering voice faded into silence.

Crane made a grimace. It was an odd expression, halfway between a smile and a scowl.

'Not at all! You're a coherent thinker. And besides, I was raised by my dear old grandmother, so I am well adapted to, ah, intergenerational understanding.'

Ms Beth looked vaguely relieved. She'd been afraid of sounding like a crazy old bat. Making an attempt at light conversation, to steer away from the painful topic at hand, she inquired politely:

'I bet you enjoyed her company, didn't you? Young children love to spend time with their grandparents, all the stories and sweets −'

'No', Crane interjected. He pinched the bridge of his nose and frowned.

'My grandmother was a fanatic. She was strict, prone to beating my knees bloody if I was disobedient, and did her very best to instil the fear of God into me from an early age. I _hated_ her', he said sincerely, brutally.

Ms Beth said nothing. She stared at him, her hand to her mouth.

'Once', Crane snorted, 'She left me locked up in an abandoned church. Except, ahah, up in the rafters, it was filled with great big ravens. I must have disturbed them in some way... They swarmed all over me, I was terrified. _She_ only came after I'd stopped screaming. I _swear_, I ran out of noise to make... Apparently, it was supposed to be a character-building experience. I've been deadly afraid of frantic, flying creatures ever since.' He turned his eyes to his listener, his face now strangely expressionless.

'What are you _afraid_ of, Ms Beth?'

***

She was worried of losing her friends, of leaving her town.  
She was afraid of being left truly alone, the last resident of a dead community.  
No one to remember to visit her. No one to recall her name.  
And after a while, she'd forget what a normal life looked like.  
Most of all, Elisabeth Tembrooke feared, with gut-wrenching dread, of being forgotten.

***

Ms Beth opened her eyes. She'd shut them tight, in order to visualise more clearly all the unspoken worries that sometimes made her feel anxious and snappish.

'It's a fairly well recorded fear, you know', said Crane, closing a small blue notebook Ms Beth hadn't noticed before. He'd been scribbling something down now, it seemed.

'It's called _athazagoraphobia_. It's possible to overcome it. Perhaps with some pills to help you relax before bedtime, but I personally believe in counselling therapy.'

Ms Beth sighed and got up. The storm was waning and she felt a lot more at ease.

'You know, I feel better already. I've never told anyone before...' She snapped her fingers suddenly.

'Enough of dark thoughts for tonight! I'm going to phone the boys over and see whether I can beat old Grentley at cards again.'

Crane nodded absentmindedly. He was feeling slightly confused for no particular reason.  
Ms Beth smiled at him and unexpectedly ruffled his auburn hair.

'You're a kind young man, Jonathan.' She left the room.

Crane looked through the window into the darkness outside. In the distance, thunder still rumbled.

'No', he sighed. 'No, I am not.'


	8. Athazagoraphobia 2

**Samhainophobia  
**

**

* * *

**

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: Boy, am I glad to finally have enough time to be posting this. I intend to be more frequent in updates. Good news, one more half-chapter, then things start to _happen_.  
Oh, yes - this chapter includes a cameo mention of the psychologist Maslow, which shows you how exciting it is. XD

Anuptaphobia is fear of staying single.

To Carycomic: Thank you very much; and portentous is _the_ word to use whenever possible.  
To ColinatorGX: Very, very interesting thought, about Crane's weakness. He's always fighting to be tougher than he is. Thanks for the great comment!  
To Trumpeteer34: I'm so glad you liked the last line - I really felt it needed to be put in. It's great that you noticed the somewhat more emotional aspect of that chapter.

* * *

**Chapter Four: ****Athazagoraphobia (Part 2)**

The preparations for the annual Halloween Scarecrow Festival were in full swing. People were using the remaining ten days to place scarecrows in their gardens and fields. Men spent the early evenings after work to help put up the street decorations.  
For the last few days, a pair of locals could be seen carrying a stepladder across Main Street, pausing at every house to climb up and hammer down wreaths shaped like smiling pumpkins. Every once in a while one of them would complain about something to their companion and they would end up bickering about the work organisation.  
Small children giggled and ran up and down the streets, paying no heed to their mothers' exasperated calls.

Jonathan Crane was busy these days, too. He had completed the corticosteroid secretions and had synthesized potent hallucinogens. The fear toxin was complete.

He was now sitting in Maggy's diner, holding a box of mice in his lap and hastily finishing his broth before going to the lab to test out the toxin.  
Maggy and he had reached a tentative truce for the time being.  
She was as dumb a girl as he had suspected, but she was surprisingly nice, ever since she had decided not to take Crane's general lack of friendly demeanour to heart.  
She trotted over to Crane now, carrying a small plastic bag full of corn and seeds. She had no idea what the professor wanted with it, but she had gone to the shop as instructed.

'Here you go, Professor. If you'll just wait a sec, I'll get your change...'

'Keep it', murmured Crane absently as he now read a small book.

His current literature was called 'Shamrock Tea' and had an interesting effect not unlike the hallucinogens. It always left Crane feeling his brain was fuzzy, but it also gave him a short detachment from his problems.  
It had been given to him by Jervis Tetch, known to Gotham as the Mad Hatter. Crane wondered briefly if Jervis was still in Arkham.  
He wasn't bad company in Crane's opinion, once you made your utter disinterest in tea parties _very_ clear.

'Wow, five bucks! Thanks, professor Tattiebogle! Did you like your meal?'

Crane emerged suddenly from his mental stupor. Had he just tipped the waitress five dollars?  
He sighed resignedly and got up to gradually make way towards the exit. As he rose, he dropped the forgotten box of mice by accident and they escaped, scrabbling across the floor. Maggy screamed like a banshee and gripped Crane's arm until he was certain his blood circulation had been cut off.

'Oh, my gosh! Mice! You brought _mice_ here?! Make them go away!'

'Good grief, child, let go of me!'

Crane managed to catch all but a few, which had completed their Great Escape and were now part of the Main Street bustle.  
He exhaled heavily and leaned against a table. Maggy was looking at him with an extremely upset look in her wide dull eyes. He had to remember to note down her fear of mice in his notebook.  
It would have been amusing for him, but he hoped she didn't ruin his fun and start crying now.  
That would be irritating.

'Look, it's alright now. The nasty mice have gone. Don't... Look, don't start crying! Oh, _please_, get a _grip_!'

'Those _awful_ little pink legs! One crawled across my foot! Urgh! What were you carrying them around for?'

'A psychological study. It's complicated, you wouldn't understand. Anyway, no harm done, so I'll be on my way now...'

She sniffled pathetically and Crane rolled his eyes privately. What a wet blanket! He would have to fake sympathy to get out of this emotional mess.

'Look', he said impatiently, 'I'm very sorry and if I could make it up, I certainly would. But since there's nothing I can do now, I'll just apologise again and go about my business.'

She looked up at him, glee in her eyes. She squeaked, sounding very much like a mouse herself.

'Ooooh! But you can! Please, please, could you come and fix up my scarecrow like you did Beth's? I didn't have time and it'd look awesome if you made it!'

'Oh, _great_. Fine. I'll see if I can.'

He pushed back the door with difficulty, carrying his many belongings.

'But I'm not promising anything, mind you!' he yelled after the figure of the waitress, who was phoning to tell her best friend Brigitte (age nineteen, anuptaphobia, possible aggressive reaction to toxin) about the excitement. Crane shook his head.

***

The mice were frightened out of their tiny minds.  
First they'd been put in a small dark space, then they'd been screamed at and nearly trodden on by a big creature with awful pink legs.  
Now they were breathing in something that smelled strange and terrified them. They banged against glass walls, squeaking in fear.

Crane had his head in level with the cages he'd placed in the corner of the lab, staring intensely; noting the way the gas affected each test sample.  
It seemed that the fear had set in correctly. There was no sign of allergic or choking reactions.  
Very good.  
It would be very displeasing to gas the entire town, only to have everyone drop dead of unwanted effects to the respiratory system.

One last check up. Subjects 1, 5, 13 and 7 were curled up in tight, quivering balls of fur.  
Subjects 3, 2, 4 and 14 were shrieking in protest at their plight.  
Subject 6 was biting and clawing at subject 10. Crane shoved it away with a long metal stick and removed subject 10 from the glass cage. He patted it absentmindedly and placed it back into the box.  
The rest were affected moderately by the gas, backing away from each other and squealing shrilly.

Perfect.

Crane noted down his progress and waited for the effects to subdue before returning the mice one by one into the box. He took a fistful of corn and seeds to reward to animals' co-operation.  
As he placed the food in the center of the box, subject 6 bit his hand viciously.  
Crane gritted his teeth and shook off the creature, tightly squeezing his fist against the pain. He placed the aggressive subject 6 in solitary confinement, putting him alone in a glass cage.  
He then slumped to the floor, gripping his hurt hand and reclining his head against the corner of the room.

There was always one who occasionally went completely berserk. He'd have to do something about the steroids in the formula one day.

Crane looked down at his hand. It was a clean cut, but would need disinfection. He massaged his hand to relax the spasm of pain. The corn now spilled from his limp fist and into the corner of the room, reddened with Crane's blood.  
He was forcefully reminded of the times when he had been too stubborn or too lively as a child. He'd been ordered to kneel on dried corn kernel in the corner of his room.  
It had seemed ridiculous the first time, until the minutes edged by slowly and the corn cut deep into his knees.

Thus humility and patience were taught.

'Bloody mess', hissed Crane between his teeth, getting up slowly.

***

Retreating from his hidden laboratory in an unusually melancholy mood, Crane locked the school gates shut after him. His hands fumbled with the keys and his injury gave a slight stab of pain. He ignored it and made his way quietly down the road, gravel and dead leaves crunching beneath his feet.

He reached the crossroads in short time and subconsciously turned towards the field containing Maggy's scarecrow. He didn't know why, but he was inclined today to try his hand at fixing the poor thing.  
Crane walked towards the farm where Maggy lived, following a criss-crossing track through the fields.  
He had already been there once, accompanying Mayor Bentle one evening out of sheer boredom. It had been productive, though. He had made progress with gathering basic information about the locals, including the unsuspecting Maggy and her friends.

He nodded to a very old man sitting in front of the house and inquired about Maggy. The man was her grandfather and was of no particular interest to Crane. He was not going to participate in the festival, and besides that fact, he would most likely have a coronary attack if exposed to the toxin.

Maggy was glad to see him. She hadn't expected the professor to actually turn up.  
She hurried over from where she had been hanging up the laundry and was greeted as usual with great reservation on Crane's behalf. He continued to be stiff and formal while she led him to the barn and Maggy began to feel flustered and uncertain, as she always did while in presence of the taciturn man.

'Here we are, Professor! I've got loads of old stuff here, you can have a look and see if you'll need anything. Thanks again for coming, I didn't really think you'd find the time...'

Crane gave her a sparse smile. He sifted though the contents of a cardboard box filled with old clothes and scraps of rags. He had a violent fit of sneezing just as he retrieved a dark overcoat from the box. Maggy laughed nervously.

'D'you need a tissue, Professor? I'm sure I've got one in...'

'Hrrrugh! No need, thank you. Just a touch of hay fever.'

'Hay fever? Erm, shouldn't you be staying away from scarecrows, then?'

'What? Pardon? Oh, no, that's _straw_ you're thinking of. I haven't a problem with straw.'

'Um... Okey-dokey, then! Will you be needing me to, um, help or something?' she quavered.

Crane looked up at her and shook his head firmly. He picked up the old clothes and tools he would need and went towards the door of the barn, closely followed by Maggy. She walked alongside him until they came to the house, talking in a scatterbrained fashion about the animals they kept on the farm and the problems they were having with their crops, as if Crane cared.

'Well, I really need to go back in and finish the washing. If you need anything, just come round the back, OK? I'll be over when I'm finished to see how you're doing.'

'Fine. Goodbye, Maggy.'

Crane found his work of repairing the dreadfully neglected scarecrow oddly relaxing. It gave him something intellectually undemanding to do with his hands while he sorted out his thoughts.

Stripping the thing of its jolly straw hat and patched trousers, he reflected sadly that it had gone through almost as much abuse in its career as the Scarecrow himself.

The Scarecrow would be making his appearance soon enough and Crane wanted it to be successful. The timing would be perfect, as the town and its immediate surroundings now had scarecrows popping up like mushrooms after the rain. It would provide an atmosphere perfect for his experiments.

***

Crane was sorry he didn't have this much luck while operating in Gotham.

He was usually too rushed there to think his plans out to perfection. Life in the city was a constant struggle between bare survival and the need for self-actualisation in the form of his studies.  
No wonder he hardly ever succeeded in the way he wanted to.

After all, according to Maslow's theory of the hierarchy of needs, higher goals could only be focused on when the lower needs in the hierarchy were met. Crane made a mental checklist of himself within those levels of needs.

Physiological Needs were basic survival factors such as nourishment and correct body temperature, et cetera, et cetera. Those were fairly simple to achieve, even though at times he had trouble while starving and freezing himself in a dark corner of the city, far from the people chasing him.

That brought him to the next level, Safety and Security. He was fairly unsatisfied with the amounts available to him.  
One could argue that he was quite secure in the High Security wing of Arkham Asylum, however Crane felt that this was poor comfort.  
He found one place or another to temporarily abide in while on the loose; but sooner or later, the factor of Personal Safety would be badly shaken by a certain brute dressed like a giant bat.

Crane rolled his eyes as he absently adjusted the new outfit that Maggy's scarecrow would be getting.

So, for sake of argument, the first two levels of the hierarchy were met. Generally speaking. If he squinted, anyway.

The third level brought Love and Belonging.  
Good grief.  
It was a level Crane thought best ignored, as it consisted of personally nonexistent factors such as family, friendship and sexual intimacy. Alright, he _could_ say he had friends.  
He rubbed shoulders often enough with the other inmates of Arkham.  
Some of them didn't even try to kill him on sight.

The problem with making new friends in a institution for the criminally insane, reflected Crane, was that they were so unstable.  
But Jervis had given him a book and Pam had sometimes let him help with watering the flowers in the asylum garden.  
He'd struck alliances with some of the inmates on occasion. It was possible to have a perfectly lucid conversation with Edward Nygma or even Harley, provided she was separated from her killer clown.

The Mad Hatter, Poison Ivy, the Riddler and Harley Quinn. Such lovely names for friends.

Feeling slightly more confident despite everything, Crane submitted the next step in his self-analysis, Esteem.  
He was very proud of his intellectual prowess, but he never felt respected by people, except when they were in fear of his Scarecrow persona. It was like having a superiority and inferiority complex at the same time.

If all the previous levels were met, he could reach the summit, Self-actualisation.  
Fat chance.  
Crane snorted to himself. His pyramid of needs was a house of cards with all the bottom cards haphazardly swaying to-and-fro.

Failure to obtain necessary levels of each need often resulted in frustration, depression and anxiety. That seemed to fit Crane's bill better than the daydream image of himself as a fulfilled scientist and famous psychologist.

He shook off the straw from his clothes, returning to more mundane and practical matters.

The Scarecrow might be a mental and emotional mess, but the scarecrow was completed rather nicely.

Now he could get the girl to take a look at it and he would finally go home. That was to say, the bed and breakfast. Funny thing, how some words crept up on you.

***

He found Maggy busy working in her small kitchen. Crane knocked against the window and she bounced over to the doorway, carrying a basket.  
The depressed psychologist frowned. He felt mild disapproval of people displaying a constant good mood towards life. It just wasn't natural, in his humble opinion.

As they were passing the barn and stables on their way to the fields, the professor suddenly grabbed Maggy's arm and stopped in his tracks. The girl glanced at him with a slightly fearful expression, which turned to confusion when she saw the eager look in his eyes.

'Is that yours?' said Crane, pointing to a horse in the stable.

'Yeah, for now, anyway. What about her?'

'Could I take a closer look, please?' asked Crane while heading purposefully to the stables.

A black horse! Why hadn't he thought of it earlier? It would be the finishing touch to his frightening Scarecrow image. He stroked the animal's muzzle fondly, admiring its fine black hide and the way its breath curled in tendrils in the autumn mist.  
He turned his head sideways to the girl standing at the entrance to the stables.

'For now? You're willing to sell it?'

'Well, not really _willing_, but she's not much use to the farm, is she? Anyway, we don't own very much of the land anymore, these are mostly crops owned by corporations. They use machines. I got her when I was little, but she costs too much to keep now. It's hard to let go, though, especially since I'm scared she'll just end up as dog food or something...'

_'I'd_ buy the horse, if you're ready. Not for a very high price, but it won't become dog food, at least.'

'You?' breathed Maggy. She looked taken aback. _'Why_?'

'Because', began Crane hesitantly, then plunged on, deciding that Maggy was too thick to suspect anything, 'Because I think I'll need her to complete a surprise I've got in store for the town on Halloween.'

He leaned toward her and whispered:

'You won't tell anyone, will you? Not even your little friends. I'd love to keep it a secret...'

Maggy's eyes were as wide as saucers as they continued their way to the scarecrow.

'Alright. I promise. Are you putting on a show or something like that?'

'Something like that, yes... I'll come over and pay you in cash tomorrow.'

'Will there be people taking pictures for newspapers and stuff? Will someone famous come? Will I need to get my hair done for the festival?'

Crane smiled widely. She'd given him a great idea.  
Two great ideas, in fact.

'Sure, Maggy. You do that', he said in a kind voice. That tone should have alerted her, but she was already in a happy little world of her own.  
She had seen her new scarecrow.  
Crane withstood her bubbling merriment with dignity. He couldn't wait to get back to his room and fit in his new ideas into the general plan.  
The girl stopped him as he bade her farewell and turned to leave.

'Here, this is a little something for you', she said and placed the basket she had been carrying into his hands.

'Thank you... You shouldn't have. _Really_.' Crane stared dully at the basket. It was heavy. He sceptically guessed at the contents.

'What's in it? Vegetables?'

'No, silly!' Maggy physically backed away at the icy look Crane shot her. She faltered and explained:

'It's a few bottles of my grandpa Archie's Corn Liquor. He makes it himself. It's really good, you'll like it.'

'Home-made, eh? Is it safe to drink?' asked Crane, remembering how easily people poisoned themselves with their own produce. Him with his toxins, for a start.

'Yeah, sure. You put a little of it on a teaspoon and set it on fire. If it burns yellow, you don't drink it. If it burns blue, it's OK.'

'Ah, you test it for methanol. But −'

'Look, we've been making it for years. I've already drunk some of this batch. Just relax. You _can_ do that, right?'

'Right', said Crane uncertainly. 'Thanks.'

'And don't tell people who you got it from. We're not supposed to have a still by the riverbank...'

'I won't tell your secret, if you don't tell mine', smiled Crane. The girl was endearingly stupid. She had told him the location of the still without so much as him asking for it. He doubted it was a very big secret in Charleston. These things never were.

'Deal. See you tomorrow, then, Professor!'

Crane trudged back to the town, arriving just before dusk. He didn't go home immediately. He wanted to expand on his evil plans of personal revenge.

He needed to send a postcard.

***

'Where've you been?' called Ms Beth from the reception, when she saw Crane walking down the corridor.

'Been busy', muttered Crane, searching his pockets for the key to his room.

Ms Beth came to him and, shaking her head, dangled the missing key in front of his face. He had forgotten he'd left it on the reception. While Crane now searched for the key to his briefcase, she picked a few pieces of straw from Crane's coat.

'A roll in the hay?'

Jonathan Crane looked at her in horror, completely aghast. She cackled at him. He waved her off in resigned dismissal.

'That was _disgusting_. Little old ladies shouldn't be so vulgar, I'll have you know.'

'Hehe. Sorry, couldn't resist. The look on your face!'

_'In_ _fact_, I went to see a man about a horse. And I fixed Maggy's scarecrow, hence the straw. It looks good. I just hope no one sets it on fire or uses it as shooting practice, the way its luck has been going. I'm going upstairs now.'

'Will you be down for cards?'

'I might. I received a present we could all share, a drink of some kind.'

'Archie's Corn Liquor? From the secret still by the river?'

'The very same. I can see that you are a veritable well of information, Ms Beth.'

Crane ascended and locked himself into his room. He found the key to his briefcase in his left boot, of all places. He knelt and took out his burlap mask for a few minutes, holding it in his hands.

_'Soon'_, he told himself in a raw whisper, or perhaps the mask.

The mask seemed to grin even more widely at him through its eerie stitching.

* * *

Note: To 'kneel on corn' is an old expression in my language, which means basically to reprent. It probably comes from that kind of punishment. Nasty. Poor Crane. D:

Shamrock Tea is a very... odd book.

If you're really bored, search for 'Archie's Corn Liquor' on the Internet. I couldn't believe something like that really existed, it seems like a perfect drink for the Scarecrow. B-)


	9. Samhainophobia 1

**Samhainophobia**

* * *

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: I'm terribly sorry if this half-chapter is long - it's about 10 pages! I split it in such a way to make my possibly favourite part of the story a separate half. It's the next one, when it starts to get more intense. It also has a cameo of another Gotham City character I find great. :D

Thank you immensely for the feedback and comments - if I have been late in responding to them, know that I read them all and try to reply at the first opportunity.

To Rocku: I'm pleased you like Maggy, for she makes a small appearance in this chapter, too.  
To AZ-woodbomb: The friendly behaviour of the locals now continues... I'm glad you caught the creepy moment in the last paragraph.  
To Carycomic: Thank you for the compliment on the story progress! Also, toymaker, eh? I hope he didn't create the Mr Scarface doll, too. D:  
To ColinatorGX: That's right, the town is accordingly affecting him. Though what he'll do about that remains yet to be seen. :) Thank you so much, I enjoy analysing him a bit.

When reading the first part of this, you'll encounter a phrase 'short-legged liar'. It's a twist on a local saying which states that lies have short legs (meaning they soon get caught). I love to insert random silly things. :)

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Five: Samhainophobia**

Thomas Grentley narrowed his eyes in concentration, his tongue sticking out, as he tried to place an ace of spades on the pyramid of cards he was attempting to make.  
He hiccupped and the structure came tumbling down.

'Drat', he mumbled. This was the sixth time it had happened in ten minutes. Beside him his son Andrew snored on the wooden bench on Ms Beth's terrace.

'I give up', said Grentley miserably.

'About time, too', replied Hugh Bentle, passing him the bottle of Corn Liquor.

It had gone around rather quickly and was now more than half empty. Or nearly half full, according to another school of thought.  
After all, the night was young; they had time in abundance to finish up the bottle. Then they could have another round of the type of philosophical conversation that tends to arise between slightly drunken individuals at one in the morning.

'It's the wind, 's gettin' stronger', complained Grentley.

'No it ain't. I finished mine, look', stated Ms Beth proudly. She blew a puff of smoke from her pipe.

'You're drunk, Grentley. And short-sighted. And it's dark. Don't be scared of admitting defeat for once', mumbled Crane from where he was curled up in a rocking chair.  
His brain felt fuzzy and happy, but his mouth was still following orders, regardless of the good liquor.

'Not scared.'

'Yes, you are.'

'Not. 'Course I'm not. Not of _anything_.'

'Nothing? Oh, please, you're lying like a, a, great big short-legged −'

'Shut up, you two', interrupted Ms Beth. They were both stubborn; if no one stopped them before it got out of hand, there'd be no end to their bickering.

'You _are_ frightened of losing, Grentley. Shush, look', she said, pointing to several bats circling and flapping overhead.  
'Johnny's afraid of _them_. So now you're both quits, OK?'

'I know you're frightened of going senile, _you_ old bat', said Grentley, not wanting to be denied having the last word.

'And I'm scared of dogs, so what? Gotta have some weakness, if you're human, no?' said Hugh Bentle in a pacifying tone.

'Yes, indeed', piped in Crane. He leaned forward and nearly fell off the rocking chair. He hadn't realised that the ground had been spinning. The bats shrieked and swooped around the company as they all poured themselves more of old Archie's masterpiece.

'Met him in person, y'know', blurted out Crane muzzily.

'Who?' asked Grentley, confused.

_'The_ _Batman_. In the City, not here, naturally.'

'Really? When?'

Crane ran his hands over his eyes, trying to focus. What had he been saying? Was he supposed to have been saying it?

'Wha...? At night, 'course. He doesn't get out much by day, I think.'

'Was he catching a criminal?' inquired Ms Beth, with slight awe in her voice.

'Um. Uh-uh. I guess so. We're all... I mean, _they're_ all a little frightened of him. He's tough...' Crane's voice petered out. His tongue was slipping and he needed to get it together really fast, unless he wanted to tell them everything, like some kind of Maggy.

'It's a collective fear thing', he babbled, to shift their attention from the Dark Knight.  
'Like when crowds get all tense and no one knows what the others are thinking, but they all feel each others' nervousness. You know? I kinda feel that here, too. What's Charleston afraid of?'

'The town?'

'Everybody in town, I mean. As a whole.'

'I know that one', interjected Hugh Bentle. 'We've got the local story of the Dead Man of Brook Field.'

'No, that wasn't what I was thinking', said Crane slowly. What had he been thinking of? He'd felt something for sure, he'd nearly sensed Charleston's fear, when suddenly the drink made the trail of his thoughts go cold. He'd remember in the morning.

'Ooh, tell him, Hugh. Let's hear a ghost story!' exclaimed Ms Beth.

'Well, there's a little field near the woods that's all ashes. Nothing grows there. Some folk say it's where a man called Jonathan Yeat was burned at the stake in 1772. He was a preacher who...'

The storytelling and discussions continued until late into the night.

***  
Jonathan Crane rocked in his chair, alone on the terrace. The others had left, his old landlady had gone to put away the glasses.

The wind blew and sent faint ripples across the fields. The skinny man stretched and yawned. The world spun and tipped slightly.  
He'd done nothing productive, but it had been fun. It had been a good night, the liquor had been good, the company had been good. Everything was good, you know?

Looking up at moon and the clouds sailing along the sky, Crane wondered if it was possible to be happy in spite of Maslow's hierarchy of needs.

He peevishly knocked over the pyramid of cards on the table with a long thin hand. The playing cards shifted in the breeze all over the wooden floor, as scattered as Crane's thoughts.

He got up unsteadily and puffed out his bony chest. He liked Maslow. He really did. The man had been a brilliant thinker and had also had a difficult childhood. However, if Professor Jonathan Crane wanted to be accomplished and happy, there was nothing _any_ deceased psychiatrist could do about it.

Crane stepped forward decisively.  
There was a world of opportunities out there, waiting to embrace him.

He tripped over the steps of the terrace and landed painfully in the mud. Crane lay there for a few moments, pondering about the irony of life.

He would have felt a whole lot worse if it hadn't been for the comforting shadow of the scarecrow falling across him.

***

There were only a few days left until Halloween. Several new guests had arrived at Elisabeth Tembrooke's establishment in the morning. Crane avoided them in case anyone from Gotham recognised him.  
He had quickly eaten breakfast in the kitchen rather than risking the dining room. Ignoring Ms Beth's remarks about how he should eat more, Crane had set off to pay Maggy for the horse.

He scratched the docile black horse between its ears as he waited for the girl to arrive. Outside, a wind chime tinkled in the breeze. The horse pricked up its ears before continuing to nuzzle his hand.  
Horses liked Crane. He always smelt slightly of nice fresh straw. Maggy entered the stable.

'Hey, Professor. Still want to buy Daisy?'

'Of course. I'm a man of my word', replied Crane. He stopped. _'Daisy_?'

'Yeah, isn't she sweet? She likes you already!'

Daisy tried to eat Crane's hair affectionately. The insane scientist deflated. He had been hoping for a more dramatic name for his mare.  
Nightmare would have been perfect. The Scarecrow and Nightmare.

Johnny and Daisy just didn't have the same ring.

'Ah, well', he said stoically. 'I can train her to respond to a new name, in time. She looks bright, Pavlov's classical conditioning could work. Not the fear conditioning of course, rather the associative learning techniques are what I have in mind... Maybe if I bribe her with sugar cubes while teaching her?'

Maggy gaped at him. 'Pavlov's what? Who? That sounds like really hard stuff... How come you're so smart, Professor?'

'I used to eat lots of broccoli as a child', said Crane, in a completely serious tone.

'Wow. Every day or just really lots once a week?'

Crane grinned. Silly, gullible girl. He had started writing down Golden Maggy Quotes in his blue notebook, for days in the future when he felt depressed and needed a laugh.  
Maggy saw his expression and looked down at her feet sadly.

'Look, I know I'm not very bright', she began. Understatement of the year, thought Crane.

'But it's not my fault. I've always been a bit slow on the uptake. It's not very nice to make fun of it, is _all_ I'm saying. I get more than enough mean remarks from everyone else...'

Crane's smile froze for a moment. When he looked at her, Maggy felt surprised to see a hint of sympathy and embarrassment on his face.

'I'm sorry', he mumbled. 'I didn't know. I thought you had lots of friends?'

'I _do_. Earl and Brigitte and some of the others are OK, but most people just like to tease me. It gets a bit tiring after a while...'

'I understand', said Crane, biting his lower lip slightly.

'I don't think you really can.'

'I can. I've been a laughingstock all my life.'

'You? Why would people laugh at you?'

'My appearance. It's not very...' he trailed off helplessly and waved his hand in the air unspecifically. 'Never mind. So... How much are you asking for Daisy, Maggy?'

***

Professor Crane strolled through the town, wishing to catch Andrew Grentley alone. He wanted to give him a specific task to carry out on Halloween.  
Crane had no doubt the boy would agree, but it was difficult finding him among all the people gathering at the town square.

Mayor Bentle appeared to be having a loud debate with someone on a voting stand built for the festival. He couldn't see Bentle's opponent, but the man had an unpleasant braying voice.  
Crane halted and stood on his toes; now a head above the crowd, he searched for Andrew's face.  
Someone poked him in the ribs.  
He looked down to see old Ms Beth standing beside him. She was shaking with suppressed rage.

'Oh, that rotten Jim Fielane!' she grumbled through gritted teeth, her wrinkled hands curling into fists.

'Hmph?' Crane grunted uncommitedly. He couldn't see Andrew.

Perhaps he hadn't woken up yet, it was very early from the point of view of the tired and hung over. Though the racket expanding throughout the crowd ought to have been enough to act as an alarm clock for the lazy boy. Everyone was getting worked up, it seemed.  
No, alarm clock had been a good choice of words. Crane could sense a faint tide of alarm making its way through the locals.  
The tension was almost palpable - Charleston's collective fear come to life.

Interesting.

'What are they talking about? It's gotten everyone worried, can you feel it?' He asked Ms Beth. She looked pretty upset herself, come to mention it.

'What?' Crane repeated, yelling over the noise.

'Come on, Jonathan! We're going. I won't stand for this!' She took his hand and led them firmly away from the square. He followed her limply, made obedient by some automatic reaction, his brow furrowing in confusion.

'Ms Beth? _What's going on?_'

'I'll tell you in a minute. Let's just get away from here.'

'Agreed. Erm... You're hurting my hand. Could you loosen your grip? Ms Beth? Please?'

***

Crane massaged his hand while Ms Beth aggressively knocked on the door to Grentley's house. The woman had a grip of steel. It hadn't helped that it was his injured hand, either.

Old Grentley suspiciously opened the door a fraction, cigarette in mouth.  
Ms Beth slammed the door wide open and strode into the house in righteous wrath. She swept into the living room like a vengeful spirit, Crane giving Grentley a small shrug as they followed.

Crane went to sit down quietly in the corner of the room, shifting a few old magazines and a half full ashtray to make space on the sofa.  
He crossed his arms over his thin chest and waited to hear what the old woman had to say.

'Jim Fielane's on the square, Grentley! He says they'll be buying the school and the adjoining field acreage next spring if we don't fund the repairs ourselves...'

'Yeah, well, it's closed down nowadays anyway. Who cares who buys it, so long as it starts working again?' replied Grentley, drawing a breath of smoke.

'No!' snapped Ms Beth. 'They want to tear the structure down, make a packaging complex or something, I don't know - to make it easier to control the entire process of getting our crops on world markets. Their crops, actually, they're buying 'em', she added bitterly.

'Nah, they won't buy the acreage around that part of the area', retorted Grentley with confidence. 'Mike and Louise won't want to sell.'

Ms Beth rolled her eyes and sighed theatrically in exasperation. She put her hands on her hips and said in a calm, slow tone:

'Of course they'll sell now. Can't you see? No, of course not, you're a man, you don't understand these things. First they closed the school and the kids had to be driven all the way to Gladston, or even St Helens.'

Grentley opened his mouth to retaliate, but Ms Beth stopped him with a wave of her hand.

'Louise hears that the school's going to be demolished. Mike hears that local land is being bought for good cash. Oh, they'll sell if the school's bought. They'll sell, too, 'cause if they don't, their farm'll go bust anyway. The rest of the land will be owned by their competition soon enough. Dead end for us.'

'So this is what it's all about?' asked Crane incredulously. 'You're _all_ scared you'll lose against bigger forces moving in? But Charleston's only a small community. It doesn't make a difference. In the long run, no one will lose anything.'

Ms Beth whipped around to face him.

_'We_ will lose the _town_, Jonathan. Perhaps no one else cares about it, but its _ours_. I for one am not standing by to see it turned into a ghost town!'

'Won't be a ghost town. There'll be the granary and packaging complex', grunted Grentley.

Crane shrugged and shifted on the sofa. Charleston's collective tension was building up.  
That suited him just fine. The poor fools!  
They thought that their pathetic little town would be destroyed by mere money, politics and migration. How mundane!

What they didn't know was that the end was nearer than they could ever imagine. Charleston would be crushed overnight, when the fear toxin spread terror through the streets.  
The entire populace would have their minds shattered when their worst fears intensified and were made real by the hallucinogens.  
Mass panic and trauma would destroy the town.

'Hello? What's happened, Dad?' Andrew came downstairs, his light hair dishevelled, yawning and blinking in the light.

Crane made his way to talk to the boy before Ms Beth got a chance to wind herself up again.

'I need you for a minute, Andrew. You'll get a chance to talk to these two little rays of sunshine later.'

'Ah, OK. What d'you need _me_ for?'

'You showed me some of your photos some time ago, remember? They were quite good, I recall. Do you have a darkroom here, by any chance?'

'Yeah, sure. In the basement. Wou... Would you like me to show you now?' Andrew quavered. In the background, Ms Beth had diverted her attention from Charleston's fate to the mess in Grentley's living room. She was poking him in the chest and demanding immediate action.

'I think now would be a good time for us to slip away unnoticed, yes.'

***

'Here we are. I developed all the pics in here. I can show you how the process goes, if you'd like?'

Crane winced as he banged his head on the low ceiling in the darkroom.

'That won't be necessary. I'd like to ask you something. Have you ever considered a project in photojournalism? Public gatherings and events, performing arts, that sort of thing?'

'I have done a bit of that, too. You mean the festival in a few days time? I wanted to take some pictures anyway, maybe they'll put them in the Chronicle. They sometimes do, if I get a few good ones.'

'Aye, I had the festival in mind. Can your camera capture fast movement well? I don't know the correct technical term, but you know what I mean.'

'Uh-uh. What would you like me to take the pictures for you of at the festival?'

'Would you agree to positioning yourself up on the flat roof of the Hall on Main Street? You could capture a bird's eye view of the events from up there.'

And you'll be safely positioned, away from the gas below, thought Crane.  
After all, if he wanted to get photographic evidence of his experiment on mass fear, he'd need the photographer to remain focused and sane.

'That actually sounds like a cool idea. Sure, I'll do my best. So you don't want anything specific captured?'

'You'll figure out what's important to capture when the time comes, I'm certain. Then we have a deal?' asked Crane.

'Yeah, no problem, Professor.'

They shook hands and Crane didn't let go immediately, but held his grip firmly.

'One last thing, Andrew. I'm really counting on you. Please don't _disappoint_ me. Don't go, ah, running off when the time comes for you to get your work done. If you do what I require well, I'm certain you will be accordingly awarded. If you don't, I'm equally certain you'll regret it.'

Another young person might have offered a snappish reply to the thinly masked and largely unspecific threat. Andrew just shuddered and nodded. He was slightly in awe of the odd professor.  
Anyway, Andrew thought he guessed what would happen. He didn't want Professor Tattiebogle to tell his father about how his son was an unreliable good-for-nothing and a failure.

'I _promise_ I'll be there with my equipment. Don't worry, you'll get lots of photos on the film and you can pick which ones you like later.'

'Good. I think I will be taking them all in any case. Shall we go back upstairs? The storm seems to have calmed.'

'The yelling's stopped, anyway.'

'Yes, I noticed. That's good.'

'Nah, mostly it means it's worse. They're _seething_. Best be prepared', said Andrew and picked up a set of keys.

'What are you going to do?'

_'We_ are going to leave _real_ _quietly_ round the back. When Ms Beth comes over to clean up, it's time to evacuate ship.'

Crane nodded. That was ever so true.

***

Jonathan Crane and Andrew Grentley sat in comfortable silence on a bench in the park next to the house. The political debate outside had ended and people were dispersing from the square.

Mayor Bentle passed their bench and merely nodded to them as he made his way home, walking in a preoccupied manner. The two men seated in the shade glanced at each other.  
Crane lifted his eyebrows and shrugged. Local matters were no concern of his.

In fact, it could be said that one man's misery was another's joy, for the build-up of tension would only make Crane's job of fear assessment easier.

As they rested overlooking the Saint Charles Creek, Andrew throwing pebbles into it, Crane saw a few of Andrew's friends approaching down the path.  
He recognised one of them and smiled faintly.

'Nice day, eh?' exclaimed Earl politely. He was still cautious about his manners whenever the professor was around. His companion, a sulky-looking teenager, simply stood to the side, eyeing Crane sullenly.

'Yeah, it's really sunny today', replied Andrew unhappily. He wanted to be at home, in the dark, in his comfortable bed.

'Coming down to the creek with us? Me and Frank'll be fishing a bit at the bend next to Brook Field.'

'No, I'll pass, thanks. We're waiting for my dad to come, I think.'

'You can go if you want, Andrew', said Crane distantly. 'I somehow don't think Grentley will be free very soon.'

'No, I don't feel up to anything today...'

'No prob. See you around then', said Earl. He turned to Crane and added reluctantly:

'Um, I saw Maggy today. Nice job with the scarecrow and all... Yeah. Well, we have to get going and all, so...'

'How come Boozer is friends with the Stickman all of a sudden?' whispered Frank. Earl paled slightly.

Crane abruptly rose from the bench, hands outstretched as if to throttle. He stopped just as suddenly and loomed over the boy, smiling inches away from his face.

Frank stared at him, bemused and uneasy. The stick-thin professor wasn't quite as funny up close. He had a dark glint in his intense eyes and didn't look at all like the meek schoolteachers Frank was used to.  
He looked like someone who would devote a lot of time thinking up unpleasant ways to get back at you.

'I wouldn't know the answer to that, my young friend. Perhaps Earl can explain a few things on your way to the river? Conduct would be a key word.'

The teenager nodded, biting his lips.

'Good. I can call you my friend, right?'

'Yes.'

'I'm sorry?' said Crane in a jolly voice. Earl nudged Frank in the ribs with his elbow.

'Yes, Professor.'

'That's more like it. I'm glad we're all friends here. Enjoy yourselves, boys.' Crane patted the worried Frank on the cheek and sat down again. As the young men were leaving, Crane heard Earl hissing:

'You idiot! Just you leave that guy alone, I _told_ you he was creepy...'

Crane barked a short laugh. Andrew looked at him sideways, his eyes still pink and sore from fatigue.

'Sorry about that. Frank likes to make up stupid nicknames for everyone. They don't bother you at all?'

'Not at all, not at all', said Crane with satisfaction.

It was true. He had outgrown petty insults from people who weren't worth his time and energy.  
He probably would have been upset if he had been seventeen again, but it seemed now that time had erased even Crane's sore spot.

Or perhaps it was was the atmosphere here, he was inexplicably capable of handling his problems without the Scarecrow.

'It bothers _me_ a bit. Ah, well...' sighed Andrew. 'I don't think they'll catch anything up at Brook Field anyway.'

'Brook Field? That's the place they think is haunted, right?'

'That's right. Mayor been telling you the stories, huh? It's just a spooky spot that overlooks the town. _Could_ have been the Preacher's Pyre, for all I know, 'cause the ground really is completely black there. I dunno what caused it, though, it's not as if anyone goes digging there.'

'You people are really big on the Devil's Preacher tales, I must have heard several versions up until now.'

'Jonathan Yeat? Yeah, he's a bit of a local favourite. Eyes a-glow with fervour, he could scare people literally to death with his apocalyptic sermons. Old Preacher Jonathan, who sold his soul to the Devil so he could punish the locals for their ignorance and mean-spiritness. Yadda-yadda, it goes on and on. You get the picture.'

'Yes. It's a rather pleasing picture.' Sometimes fate delivered the perfect ending. They would all think it was the vengeful spirit of the Preacher when Crane released terror on the streets. Superstition would make an excellent complement to fear.  
Luckless bastards.

'There you are, you lucky bastards', grumbled Grentley, huffing and puffing on the way to Crane and Andrew. 'Got yourselves out of this nicely, I don't think! D'you know what the old hag made me do? She made me clean out all the stuff outta the living room, then bullied me into washing the entire floor! What for, I ask you? We cleaned everything recently!'

'We cleaned everything when the kitchen flooded last winter, Dad', said Andrew reproachfully.

Crane sniggered.

* * *

Note: The Devil's Preacher is sort of a vague little tribute to the animated series and that undead preacher look they gave Crane. Odd, but very effective.


	10. Samhainophobia 2

Samhainophobia

* * *

General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: I like this half-chapter, the wierd stuff was fun to write. The next one'll be finally Halloween, with the coincidence that it might actually be Halloween when I submit it. :D  
Thank you lovingly for your kind support of this story, three shorter third-chapters to go, hope you'll enjoy them.

To Trumpeteer34: Thanks so much, I'm really pleased you like 'this' Crane. Also I'm glad you enjoyed the hay line, I had to put in that pun somewhere! :D  
Crane seems the type for mockery (when he has guts enough for it), which I love to write a bit.

To Carycomic: That's right, I forgot about Nightwing's introduction. They only did two episodes with the Scarecrow, I think, but both were a bit disturbing! And I think you're right about the Pale Rider influence, it's too much of a coincidence.

To ColinatorGX: I wanted to put a plan to Crane's fear gas experiment that would tie in nicely with the direction of the story. You'll see. Drunk Crane is amusing to write and imagine. D:

* * *

**Chapter Five: ****Samhainophobia (Part 2)**

It was night and time for Jonathan Crane to carry out the final and most unpleasant preparation for the toxin. He greeted Ms Beth on the way out, explaining that he had left something at the lab.  
The toxin had been stored in several pressurised cans. A sample had been kept aside for Crane to carry out one last preliminary experiment – introspection.

He would breathe the gas himself and note its effect. This wasn't a very reliable method of psychological research and study, but it was necessary in this case.

Crane was by no means immune to the fear gas, but he had found that if he exposed himself to it beforehand in a controlled environment, he could later regain some control of himself.  
Knowing the exact effect on himself was useful, he knew what to expect if he was gassed by accident. Foreseen hallucinations were easier to dismiss.

Crane exited the school, carrying a beaker with the sample in liquid form and an alcohol burner.

He placed himself on the lowest step and prepared to heat up the sample gently. The flames had trouble starting because of the wind starting to blow.

Waiting for the liquid to vaporise, Crane glanced at the panorama of Charleston. The street lights twinkled in the dark and Crane wondered what he would experience under the influence of the gas.  
Perhaps the nearness of the little town would bring back his childhood fears.

The wind continued to howl and Crane cupped the flames protectively with his hands. A few bubbles formed in the liquid.

Charleston shone serenely in the dark, regardless of the fears that paralysed its residents' peace of mind.  
Crane felt a pang of unexpected sympathy for the town. It continued to stubbornly function in the face of overwhelming odds against its existence.

He had to admit that there was something akin to his nature in the atmosphere of the town.  
He didn't analyse such thoughts further. A few more days and it would all be over in any case.  
Crane was feverish with anticipation.

He knew that Halloween would prove the shock of a lifetime for the residents and only Jonathan Crane was capable of providing it.

Namely, Crane had an advantage few of the Arkham inmates could boast of. He possessed an ability to mask his madness just up to the point where he required. His psychosis was, of course, plain to any competent psychiatrist - but while on the loose, he partially adapted to society.  
He could never find complete peace in an ordinary setting, that he could not; the desire for his psychological experimentations, in the end, always channelled itself through his actions.

However, common people often ignored little telltale signs of his twisted nature. He could blend into a crowd and, apart from his height, no one would spare him a second glance.  
Crane was a threat because he was able to pretend he was perfectly sane and then proceed to cause irrevocable mental damage.

The insane professor pulled back a few strands of reddish-brown hair from his face. He knelt down neatly in front of the beaker, the liquid inside about to reach boiling point.  
His heart thudded in his throat, in fearful expectation of the effects.  
But it had to be done.

These fools here never suspected what danger lurked among them, unnoticed and unremarkable until it was too late.  
They had actually accepted him in their midst as if he was one of them.  
There. _That was just the problem, wasn't it? Why on Earth had they accepted him?_

The dark fumes arose. Crane inhaled.

***

Roughly seventy kilometres east of Charleston lay Gotham City, glinting with lights and emitting factory smoke. It was the city that proverbially never slept. Some of its citizens certainly never seemed to.

Batman climbed the wall of an unattractive residential building in a low rent area of the city. He had received a call from Commissioner Jim Gordon, passing on a message for the vigilante.  
A certain someone they owed a small favour to had required a meeting with him. The Dark Knight was grim with suspicion after he had reached his destination and had realised the location.  
He knew who lived here and, although it was unlikely a setup, it was also unlikely good news for him.

Few things were, in his personal line of public relations work.

Batman climbed through the open window to his host's humble apartment. He landed on something that crunched underfoot. A small man, who had been sitting at a table and reading, glanced up and smiled.

'I know you never knock, so I placed a little forewarning for myself. Do come in, now that you're here.'

'What was on the floor?' asked the Dark Knight, feeling slightly miffed. He sometimes had the nasty feeling his host was rather brighter than him.

'Old breadcrumbs', said the Penguin. He stood up and lit himself a cigar.

'Won't you sit down for once? You have a talent for making people feel high-strung in their own homes.'

Batman declined the offer in silence, but came a few steps closer.

'You have every right to be feeling nervous, Penguin. There had better be a good reason for calling me here.'

'Such impatience! Not to worry, I haven't any requests on my behalf... Yet. I am here to divulge information.'

'Good. I want to make it clear, Penguin, that in spite of recent events, I will continue to keep a close eye on you. Any shady dealings will result in the ending of your new career. Incidentally, why are you still living here? I would believe you'd consider it below your status now.'

'First of all, I would prefer you to call me by my given name. May I remind you, I am reformed now. I will be moving when the renovation of the club I bought is completed. I assure you everything will be completely legitimate. Though I'm certain you'll be checking it yourself', the Penguin added acidly.

'Very well. Mr Cobblepot, then?'

'Oswald will do. We're on the same side now, more or less.'

The Dark Knight gave a barely audible snort. He had little confidence that the state of things would continue for long.

'Oswald... You have new information on the Joker, don't you? This is what you called me for, I presume?'

'Oh, no, not for him. However, I don't think you need to bother about the Joker now.'

'Why? There's been no sign of him for weeks now.'

_It would be too much to hope for that the dreadful clown is dead_, thought the Dark Knight. _He has to be planning something big._

'He's indisposed, poor wretch. Last I heard of him, he'd gotten into some freak accident. His ribs are completely shattered. He'll live, but he won't be laughing for a while.' Oswald Cobblepot grinned.

The Dark Knight couldn't help but to twitch his mouth upwards slightly.

'Where is he now?'

'I don't know, and frankly, I don't care. He is not my worry.'

'I should think he was. _You_ must have been the one to help him, if you know so much about his injuries. It would be a smart move, keeping someone like him on your good side.'

The Penguin narrowed his eyes. It was true that he had offered the one-time service of a doctor who didn't ask many questions. A man who wished to open a nightclub wanted to make sure Gotham's Number One Arsonist owed him.

'Ah. I _definitely_ do not know his _current_ residence, I am afraid. However, it is not him we are here to discuss.'

'Finally to the point. What _are_ we here for?'

'I received a postcard for you. It's on the table.'

'Sorry?' He had to have heard the man wrong.

'A postcard, Bat. A rectangular piece of stiff paper used to send greetings. It's from the Scarecrow. It has, quite conveniently, a picture of a rather jolly scarecrow on it. In case the signature of Jonathan Crane proves too difficult for you to make a connection.'

The Batman lifted the postcard cautiously with gloved fingers. You never knew what the card might contain, with the chemically talented villain. He cursed himself mentally. With the burden of all his other problems, he'd forgotten unresolved issue of the Scarecrow.

'What do you know of Charleston, Oswald? It was sent from there.'

'Next to nothing. I believe it was a part of the slavery-era Underground Railroad.'

'Great. There must be a lot of tunnels for him to hide in, then. I had better set off right away.'

'No! Didn't you read the end of the text? He says you have to be there exactly at midnight on Halloween. If you come earlier, he'll make the people living there suffer for your omission! Don't you _ever_ stop to think through?'

'You've been reading my private correspondence! Why, then, didn't you tell me sooner about this?'

'Because I hate to think what he'd do to _me_ if I had. It said to tell you today. Listen, you follow the instructions that the blasted postcard tells you. The man's desperate and cornered, he could do something very nasty.'

'Yes.' Batman sighed heavily. The chubby little man was unfortunately right. There was nothing to do but to try playing by the Scarecrow's rules. He would prepare himself the best he could and spend the day hoping the lunatic would appreciate his co-operation enough to spare the residents. After all, it was surely him he wanted, not the locals.  
Batman massaged his temple in frustration.

'Thank you, Oswald. I value your help', he told the Penguin sourly.

'Oh dear. Does this mean you won't be staying for a drink?' smirked the Penguin, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.

'Fine', the Batman grunted unexpectedly. 'Just one.'

He sat down at the table abruptly and downed half the drink in one gulp. The Penguin raised his eyebrow and joined him. It must have been a very long night.

***

Ravens and crows, black as the night, circled him and cawed. They scratched at his face with their clawed feet, attempting to peck out his eyes. He crouched down low, shielding his eyes with his hands, feeling the flutter of the corvids' wings on his face.

_No, it's just the wind. Get up, coward.  
_  
He rose on shaky legs and the world swirled nightmarishly around him, the landscape skewed and muted. He managed to set forth unsteadily, the loud bark of a nearby fox making him start.  
Sweating nervously despite the cool air, the weedy man studied his surroundings, his pupils dilated.

_So now you fear the dark, too? Pathetic. Walk on.  
_  
He managed to trudge through the rustling corn fields, hallucinating the oncoming footsteps of tormentors preparing to throw rocks.  
Break his flesh. Push him deep into the mud. Make him gag and choke. His nails dug into his palms, drawing blood.

_All to be expected. The birds, the bullies, the helplessness. A few more steps and the road will be there.  
_  
He reached the road and breathed heavily, blood pounding to his head. The open path and the fresh air made his panic fade.  
He knew this was only temporary. The gas functioned by periodically lessening and heightening the levels of glandular secretions.

_See? You're thinking straight. Go on, the town is waiting.  
_  
He passed the church, whispers of admonishment tearing through his ears. Bells tolled and unseen feathery wings rustled. The terrified man subconsciously reached out with spindly fingers, to touch a rosary that hadn't been on his neck for years.  
Childish guilt sprang through his chosen atheism, snarling of his betrayal. Shadowy imagined figures pointed at him and murmured softly in contempt.

_Make yourself stronger than the effects, even if it breaks you._The Devil's Preacher of Brook Field, his presence as palpable as dread, threw back his head and laughed at him. The scrawny man gave a barely audible whimper and ran through the empty streets, passing rows of smiling scarecrows.

_If you are not strong enough to survive, then you do not deserve to live. Overcome this. There is work to be done, the harvest of fear awaits the Scarecrow to reap it.  
_  
'Hah', said Jonathan Crane.

The silence was deafening, the discomfort rising through the abandoned town. No one called out to him. No one passed the streets. He hesitantly walked on, pausing before a scarecrow with a hangman's noose around its neck.  
He stood before it, the toxin making him feverish with realisation.

The town was dead; as dead as the Preacher, as dead as its inhabitants of stuffed straw.  
He had brought this upon them.  
There was blood on his hands.  
He'd killed them all with his chemicals and his lies and his petty malice. He gave a raw sob.

The scarecrow smiled at him knowingly through empty eyes.

_They all deserved it; they were fated for nothing else. We bring justice, we bring the vengeance that needed to be exacted long ago.  
_  
Something in him faltered and squirmed.

'They are not to blame for this condition. They thought I was a guest', he whispered in earnest to the scarecrow.

_They thought wrong. They always underestimate us.  
_  
'But they were kind to me, weren't they? They didn't need to, but they still let me in.'

_Irrelevant. We don't need kindness! Pity is for the weak, the frightened, the ones too overwhelmed to act. We need respect! We will force them to respect us._The scarecrow smiled at him contemptuously through empty eyes.

'Oh. But we already had their respect, didn't we?'

_And what of it? The respect of a stupid old woman and her unaccomplished friends. Who needs that? We can make this work, their plight will be delicious. It always is._

'Will we be laughing?'

_Yes! We will be laughing at their mindless panic, we will mock them mercilessly, as we were mocked. We will hurt them until they are paralysed with fear, until they choke on their terror. We will become the one who drives the weak to their breakdown!_

'Yes. That's what I was afraid of.'

The Scarecrow smiled at him unnervingly through blue eyes.

Jonathan Crane grabbed the Scarecrow by the neck and throttled him.  
The toxin finally gave way and the scraggy man found himself standing alone in the street, squeezing a straw Halloween decoration with his bony hands. Jonathan Crane blinked.  
It really came to something when you started hallucinating yourself.

He made it through the dark to the back entrance of his home and sat down listlessly on the steps. He hugged his thin legs and rested his chin on his knees. He was sheltered away in a cocoon, trapped in a vortex of his own thoughts.  
Haltingly, almost silently, he began to cry, his cheeks burning in shame.

***

It was the hour before dawn. The town slept on, the morning mist swirling low on the streets. Ms Elisabeth Tembrooke opened the back door of her house, preparing for her morning duties.  
She was surprised to see the thin frame of Professor Jonathan already sitting on the steps.  
He was shuddering slightly in the cold air, but remained positioned where he was, not looking up at her as she approached.

'Morning, my fine fellow. Waiting for the sunrise? They say it's going to be a perfect day for Halloween, what with the fog setting in.'

The tall man remained silent, avoiding her eyes. She noticed that his clothes were caked with mud again, but what gave her a seed of worry was the blood on his hands.

'Here, what have you been up to?' she asked the unmoving figure. He shot her a quick glance, the white of his eyes pronouncedly showing, and waved a hand in dismissal.

'What happened, dear?' She was beginning to be alarmed now. He didn't answer.

'Look at me!' she barked. The professor finally looked directly at her, obeying some instinct from his matriarchal upbringing, and his pale face showed strain.

'I think', he croaked hoarsely, 'I think I will need to go show you something.'

'Alright', said Ms Beth. 'What is it? You see, I have this oddest feeling it won't be something very pleasant.'

He didn't smile, but got up reluctantly. She followed him upstairs. Before he opened the door to his room, he whispered to her:

'Please promise not to run. Please. I'll... explain.'

***

The old woman solemnly turned the mask round and round in her wrinkled hands. The despicable thing grinned at her, as though mocking her shattered trust.

'What will you do to me now?' She asked the lunatic meekly sitting on the bed opposite her. She considered the possibilities of reaching the phone on time if she ran.  
She dismissed the idea, the thought striking her of the wires perhaps already having been cut.  
He looked up at her, his voice catching in his throat.

'I? N...Nothing.'

'Liar.'

'No.' He shook his head vehemently.

She glared at the creature in front of her, wondering how she had made it alive this long. The man Jonathan Crane was known to be completely insane and had been living in close proximity to her for weeks now.

_And you liked the little bastard, too_, she thought. It had felt good, having a smart young thing to keep her company.  
He was a good listener and showed an unexpected level of sincere loyalty. He had adapted readily to their quasi-familial relationship.

He stared back at her, at a loss what else to say. He didn't know what to do.  
He considered running, but decided it would be, at best, a matter of hours before he was humiliatingly caught.  
Why had he been stupid enough to tell the woman everything? If he was too cowardly and distressed to complete his plan, he could have at least had the guts to flee the area to a surrounding he was less personally attached to.

Ms Beth studied the man's face from up close. He looked frightened now, and much younger than he behaved.  
She had difficulty accepting the facts and changing her previous view of him as an intelligent and sane professor. How could he be at the same time so deluded?

Poor wretch. He had tried hard to be normal these weeks, it seemed. Mental illness was after all only a sickness of the broken mind. God knew what he had been through.  
She suddenly remembered his expressionless face saying: '_She used to beat my knees bloody._'

She shuddered and then briefly passed her hand over her face, sighing.

Ms Beth stood up and placed the mask back into the briefcase. She closed the briefcase with a clicking noise and turned to her protégé, for lack of a better word.

'Do you know what to do now, Professor Crane?'

'Yes, I think so.'

'I will give you a good head start. I will notice your disappearance after lunch, then be surprised to find incriminating evidence of your identity in the room. You promise me you won't hurt anyone.'

'I... Thank you. But I do not intend to run this time. We all have to face our fears some time, Ms Beth, or we do not move forward at all.'

'What are you suggesting, then?'

He told her. When he had finished, she asked him to tell her again. He repeated himself patiently. The second time he finished explaining his course of action, she was sitting in a slight daze, smiling.

'Damn', she said. 'Damn. _Really_?'

'Yes. What do you think?'

'Damn.'

Ms Beth walked up and down the carpet, grinning nastily. She grabbed Crane by the chin and studied his face, her black eyes as sharp as knives. Finally, she stated:

'I think it's brilliant. We'll have to be tactful, mind you. I reckon I could make 'em listen if we show them, in spite of what you are. Will it work?'

'I hope so!'

'And after it's over, you will...?'

Crane bowed his head.

'I will lose.'

The old woman gave him a heartfelt look of sympathy. She reached the door.

'It's nearly dawn. Take all that's necessary, Jonathan. Shall we go?'

Crane nodded. There was a lot to be done today. He paused by the entrance to his room.

'One last thing... Where do you keep your shovel, Ms Beth?'

***

Crane finished shovelling back the soil, panting from exertion. He looked to where the old woman was watching him, and she gave him a faint nod of encouragement.  
His breath still shallow, Crane took out the materials to finish his work. Ms Beth took the pipe out of her mouth and scratched her chin quizzically with it.

'Why here? And why place _that_ over it?'

'It seemed appropriate. No one will go touching the spirit of Halloween. Not here.'

He rearranged the features of the scarecrow and planted it firmly into the ground. He backed away and glanced back briefly at the scene he'd created as he walked downhill.

It was completed to his satisfaction, the embodiment of the fear of Halloween. _Samhainophobia_.  
What better place for it, than the here and now?

'After all, in the end, it's not about winning or losing. It's about leaving a mark', he muttered to himself.

* * *

Note: Around about the time I finished this chapter, I watched Batman Begins for the first time. They mention the Underground Railroad as crossing part of the caves beneath Wayne Manor.  
As the real life Charleston was part of it, it seemed balsphemy not to include that snippet of info at this point. :D


	11. Euphobia 1

**Samhainophobia**

* * *

_General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent._

Notes: _I'm terribly sorry._ I had my final exams, which went well, which is nice. So I didn't update at all, which isn't. :(

To those of you who read this story, a heartfelt thanks and a promise to keep a better schedule.

_Also_, if you fancy a coloured Batman-related drawing for yourself, I'll gladly take your requests and upload them for you on my deviantART page (Given on my user page here). Happy holidays!

_Euphobia is a fear of hearing good news._

To Carycomic: Thank you so much for the comment and support. I didn't know about the Underground Railway, I thought it was a metaphore for both escape routes and tunnels. I may change something on that last chapter, then. And I laughed at the mental image of Crane's shovel attack. I _would_ be so like him. XD

To ShimmeringPhoenix: I'm very glad and surprised that I caught a bit of the actual atmosphere of small towns. I love such places in general, they at times seem more humane than the overcrowded cities. Thanks for following the story, and thanks for sharing the info about the town that disappeared in the twenties! Is it a 'ghost town' now, or transformed into something else?

To ColinatorGX: Thank you for the feedback, I love how you catch on to the step by step development of Crane I intended. He is indeed just a scared human inside, perhaps even more scared than most.

To Trumpeteer34: He did pull a Dr. Jekyll on himself, didn't he? XD It seemed better than to always have him gass himself by accident. I'm glad you liked the image of him on the steps.

* * *

**Chapter Six: Euphobia**

A large black vehicle took the first turning off the main district road. Driving slowly across potholes and muddy puddles, it painstakingly made progress toward the remote town called Charleston on the Creek. It was far too large a car for this small local road. Batman's glance raced back and forth through the corn fields, attempting to catch a glimpse of his opponent. He wasn't certain that the Scarecrow couldn't be lurking somewhere close.  
His car suddenly ran over a metal object, which screeched in protest. It was a rusty bicycle, lying abandoned on the road. Perhaps the Dark Knight would have been pleased to know it was Crane's treacherous getaway vehicle. He would have known he was nearing his quarry.

As it was, he felt uncertain and ill at ease. The fields stretched on and on, each clearing between them bringing false hope that it was the end. A storm was brewing from the west again tonight, the wind shifting corn stalks, creating an effect of movement.  
Suddenly he saw a silhouette to his right and stopped his car abruptly, leaping out towards it. Twisting his body as he ran, he flung himself sideways at the shadowy figure shifting gently in place. What he pounced on heavily was no man, however, and the Dark Knight painfully struck a wooden construction. Straw flew around him. He got up feeling slightly winded and saw that he had nearly been right in his initial guess of the figure; it was nonetheless still merely an ordinary scarecrow.  
The Batman shook his head and walked back to his car with a rueful smile. He drove off into the night, leaving his short time acquaintance to remain standing, looking rather the worse for wear.

The next morning proved to be a faint distress for Maggy when she saw that some vandal had thoughtlessly abused her scarecrow. Again.

***

Crane was sitting pensively on the steps of the entrance to Ms Tembrooke's establishment. After a few minutes of meditative silence, he rose. He took several steps forward until he reached the gate to the house, only then turning back. He tried not to think of what had turned out to be one of the safest homes he had ever had. He pointfully ignored the way Mayor Bentle and Andrew were standing around the back of the house, peering at him fearfully from behind the corner. What mattered was that he had reached a deal with the Mayor. He had a free rein now in this sequestered little town, so to speak. Once the reins arrived, of course.

The street was empty, apart from Ms Beth standing in the middle and gazing into the distance like a watchful old prairie dog. Crane went to stand next to her and managed a faint smile. Crickets chirped in the silence. Paper Halloween decorations that had been abandoned during the festival swirled down the streets. The wind was getting stronger and Crane saw lighting in the distance. He looked at his watch and counted the seconds until he heard thunder. The storm was getting nearer and so was his adversary. It was barely an hour until midnight.

'Finally', said Ms Beth quietly. 'Here he comes.'

'Aye. I see him.'

Thomas Grentley came slowly up the road, rope in hand, Crane's docile mare following him obediently. He handed the reins to Crane and surprisingly winked at him with a devilish twinkle in his eye.

'Knew there was something fundamentally wrong with you the moment I saw you, Mr Crane.'

'Grentley!' snapped Ms Beth.

'It's all right', said Crane with a short glance towards her.

'Shoulda known, really. Ain't never seen a live man with a coat so filthy and ragged before.'

'Going to be a mess again very soon, I'm afraid', replied Crane ominously.

'Seen plenty of scarecrows like that, though', went on Grentley doggedly. 'Dead giveaway, if you ask me.'

'Yes. I bet you knew all along. I wonder why you fainted when we told you, then?'

Grentley frowned and narrowed his eyes.

'Didn't faint. My blood pressure just jumped momentarily, that's all.' He gave a Crane a solemn nod and went to the back. Crane thought it was the nearest to respectful acknowledgement he would get from old Grentley.

He stroked the mare's nuzzle fondly. He had placed his few belongings into two saddlebags, which he now strapped to the saddle carefully. He also strapped down his weapon of choice. Ms Beth smoked her pipe in silence and watched on. When he was done with the preparations, she nudged him gently in the ribs.

'How much longer?'

'I still have ample time.'

'Time enough for one last game?' she asked, catching his eye.

'Would you let me?' he said timorously. 'Even now?'

Ms Beth blew a puff of smoke.

'Come, then. Let's get organised.'

***

The car was stuck in the deep mud, the wheels rotating futilely, the engine roaring in frustration. Several crows fluttered away, alarmed at the noise. The Dark Knight pressed various buttons on his command board and the car finally raced forward. There was still time, but he was worried that he might be too early, or even worse, too late for whatever plan the Scarecrow had set into motion. The Dark Knight passed row upon row of scarecrows, each one smiling at him in a sinister fashion. Batman wondered briefly what he had gotten himself into. The scarecrows were too strange a coincidence to ignore.  
Slowing down to weave and maneuvre through the muddy tracks, Batman hoped against hope that the residents were in no big danger. He couldn't bear to have innocent lives on his hands. He suspected the worst deep inside. The Dark Knight was a pessimist. It saved time and disappointment.

***

'There. What d'you say to that?' exclaimed Grentley triumphantly. They had drawn straws and he had been playing cards alongside Crane. Ms Beth slumped in defeat and put down her cards.

'Finally! I knew I'd beat you one day...' stated Grentley proudly. He turned to his co-player. 'And you... Bravo! I knew there was something right about you when I saw how you play. Same as me. Takes a man of quality to cheat so well at cards!'

'Oh, you two! I knew it!' declared Ms Beth.

Andrew gave a snort of laughter and smiled weakly for the first time since he had been introduced to the real Professor Jonathan. Mayor Bentle sat to the side, stroking his beard, deep in thought. Crane glanced at his watch and his insides squirmed nervously. It was nearly time. The old woman saw his fleeting expression of despair and stood up.

'Is it time?' she inquired politely, as if they were discussing mundane everyday schedules.

'Yes. I bid you all farewell, then. And I sincerely thank you once more.'

'Thank _you_, sir' said Mayor Bentle almost inaudiblely. It was the first time he had spoken that evening.  
Crane nodded to him respectfully, his throat dry, and stepped off the porch. He was already dressed for the occasion, in his scarecrow costume. He picked up his mask from where it had been placed on a wooden table, hearing the sharp intake of breath from his hitherto companions. The first prize certificate for Ms Tembrooke's Halloween scarecrow lay next to it. It brought up a bittersweet feeling in Crane.  
He sighed heavily and left the house, this time not turning back. He walked very slowly to where he had tied his mare to a post. He was surprised when he saw Ms Beth standing there already. She smiled sadly at him.

'I wish you good luck, Jonathan, whatever happens now.'

He stood opposite her and bowed his head.

'Thank you. I won't ever forget your help. And I won't forget you. So now you needn't be afraid of anything anymore', he said.

'Will you come back one day?' she blurted out.

'I don't know... I really don't know. Once I've completed my work in Gotham, I will − '

'You will come back, dear, when... when you've sorted yourself out.' She patted him on the cheek. It felt oddly comforting. The old woman reached out into her pocket and handed him a small box.

'This is for you.'

'What is it?'

'You can open it later to find out.'

'Thank you, Auntie Beth.' Crane reached down and kissed her gently on the forehead.

'Until we meet again, then', he said huskily and forced a final smile.

Crane put on his mask and dark hat with exaggerated care. He mounted the horse and took off down the road, towards whatever fate awaited him there.

***

The black vehicle came to a stop. This had to be the place. The Dark Knight came out of his car, cautiously looking around himself. The streets were completely empty, the wind howling down them eerily. The Batman strained to hear any telltale noise, but only heard the wind through the trees and a distant wind chime. Suddenly he detected the loud clapping noise of hooves on concrete.

Crane saw the powerfully built man standing at the end of the street and his heart stopped for a second. He swallowed his fears and misgivings, drowning them in his concentration. It was the moment of truth. He leaned toward his horse's ear, fervently hoping no one else would hear him.

_'Giddy up, Daisy.'_

He added more loudly: 'Onward, Nightmare!'

Because you had to have style.

The Dark Knight strained his eyes and saw what was approaching. A fine black horse was coming down the road at a brisk trot, its breath forming thin smoky tendrils in the cold night air. The rider was grim and silent, but one could easily guess his identity.  
The church bell tolled midnight.  
The Dark Knight walked resolutely forward, his senses heightened to react quickly. If this was going to turn into a showdown, so be it.

***

The horse joyfully sped up into a gallop, grateful for the chance to finally get some exercise. It raced forward, making the wind whistle frantically in Crane's ears. He pulled the reins, trying to stop Nightmare's acceleration, but the mare ignored him in her moment of freedom. The man known as the Scarecrow gave up and held on tight in resignation. Batman stopped in his tracks as man and horse rushed towards him madly. He flung himself to the side and rolled across the ground when he saw that they had no intention of stopping.

The Scarecrow experienced a fleet gut-wrenching moment as the horse jumped. The air seemed to slow down for the second they flew through the night. The Scarecrow's body jolted painfully when the horse landed on the ground once more, its hooves ringing jarringly through the silence. Batman arose, taking out bolas from his belt, as the Scarecrow forced the horse to turn back to face his opponent. He aimed to throw, hoping to tangle the legs of the villain's steed.

Thunder rumbled and Nightmare whinnied nervously. The Scarecrow patiently undid the straps holding his weapon in place. Lightning struck a nearby field, briefly illuminating the square. The Dark Knight flung his weapon as the mare suddenly reared and the Scarecrow swung out with his scythe. The world sped up.

The bolas missed both the horse and her rider, clattering uselessly across the cobblestone square. The Scarecrow swung down from Nightmare, releasing the animal from his grasp on the reins. The horse watched its master uncertainly as he scythed the air theatrically several times, forcing his adversary backwards.

Nightmare pricked up her ears to the sounds of windows opening. She masterfully ignored the cries of people watching the strange scene playing itself before their eyes. The Scarecrow dropped his weapon and deflected a sharp blow from the Batman. The mare briefly paused in her newfound activity of drinking from a fountain to witness her master being knocked down. She snorted in disapproval and continued to gulp up the water.

The Scarecrow squirmed slightly stunned in the steel grasp of the Batman, which was holding down both his wrists. He jerked his head forward suddenly, hitting the vigilante on the nose. He felt his arms momentarily released and used the opportunity to punch Batman upwards in the jaw. Using the brief seconds it took the Dark Knight to recover, he leapt up and assumed a ready pose. The vigilante threw himself violently at the thin man, who merely stepped backwards. Batman hit the pavement painfully, creating a sound not unlike a slab of meat being slapped. He managed to get up and resume circling the Scarecrow, much to the villain's chagrin. He had hoped that the big man would at least be winded.

People had started gathering outside their houses, fearfully watching the ongoing fight. They weren't commenting the situation anymore; they were completely silent.  
The Batman and the Scarecrow were simultaneously backing away from each other a few steps, each wanting more space to maneuver. Batman felt strained and anger was building up inside him. His burlap-masked opponent had displayed more zeal than he'd thought. The Scarecrow for his part was unusually calm, feeling oddly detached from himself. He felt as if he was watching himself from outside, not altogether there.

They both struck at the same time, the Scarecrow with his hand at a right angle, the Batman with his steel boomerang. Time mentally slowed down to a standstill, forming a gruesome tableau. The metallic weapon had cut deep along the Scarecrow's arm, through the fabric and into the flesh. At the same time, the Scarecrow's long arm had continued its orbit and the hand had slammed into the Dark Knight's throat in a calculated blow.  
Batman's vision exploded into sparks of light, his throat in sudden, searing pain. He fell to his knees very slowly. His brain had gone numb, he was unable to react, all his awareness centering into the feeling of choking. He steadied himself with his hands on the stones, gasping for air. He heaved a few deep breaths and looked upwards.  
The Scarecrow was standing above him gravely, scythe in bloody hands. The Dark Knight didn't close his eyes. He couldn't.

'The end', said the Scarecrow hoarsely.

The scythe swung.

***

The Scarecrow never thought he would make it this far. He had been all but exhausted, when his hand had instinctively sliced through the air right at the vigilante's throat. To his surprise the man had dropped to the ground helplessly. Some cruel twisted fate had decided that the Batman was to run out of luck on this night. The Scarecrow picked up his abandoned scythe, slowly walking toward his nemesis. He wanted the Dark Knight to see that he had lost and that he was powerless. To make them both know who had ultimately won. The vigilante's life now hung by a thread all too easily cut by the scythe.  
The Scarecrow stood above the Dark Knight, preparing his final blow. It would be necessary to be precise, in case he missed his target and ruined the plan he had put together. Regret briefly stung the Scarecrow's heart, but Jonathan Crane ignored it firmly.

'The end', said the Scarecrow hoarsely.

He swung the scythe and shattered it deliberately on the stones. Jonathan Crane took off his mask, knelt down neatly in front of the Dark Knight and whispered:

'And now I lose.'

Because sometimes you needed mercy, if you wanted justice.


	12. Euphobia 2

**Samhainophobia**

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General disclaimer: All distinctive characters and related elements featured in this publication are trademarks of DC Comics. I claim no rights or profits.  
The text of the publication is intellectual property of myself, Lana Dragičević. Not to be used, altered or distributed without my expressed, written consent.

Notes: Euphobia is a fear of hearing good news.

One more chapter to go. I really have mixed feelings about this one, it's a bit sentimental. It took me ages to post it, but since I don't know what else to edit on it...

To Trumpeteer34: Thank you so much for your comment on the last chapter. I'm really glad you enjoyed it! The quote about Batman always fearing the worst, because it save time and dissapointment, was something that randomly came into my thoughts once. He is quite the pessimist, isn't he? :)

To Rocku: I'm very grateful that you still read this story and I hope this chapter won't be too sweet, either. Do tell if it needs to be changed.

To Carycomic: A strange denouement? :D It may even get stanger... ;)

To Scarecrow 65118: Thank you for what I feel to be the greatest compliment of all. This was a story I thoroughly enjoyed writing, it's good to hear that it is original.

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Six: Euphobia (Part Two)**

It had started to rain some time ago. Crane listened with his eyes closed to the dull repetitive patter of droplets on the windshield. He fidgeted with his handcuffs, quietly humming a tune under his breath, waiting in the car for the moment when he would be taken away to the City.  
The Dark Knight seemed to be talking to the Mayor now. People had crowded around the square, but had kept their distance from the black car and its even darker occupant.

His arm had been bandaged; the saddlebags with his few belongings placed in front of him. Crane managed to take out the little box he had received from his pocket. He held it in his hands pensively for a few minutes, not yet bringing himself to open it. He felt surreal, detached from the events currently surrounding him.

Someone tapped on the window. Crane looked sideways and to his surprise saw young Andrew standing sheepishly next to the car.  
The boy was drenched to the skin. He had a plastic bag in one hand and was eating something he held in the other.  
Crane smiled.  
Here was someone who felt solid, a down-to-earth reality rather than the vague concept his world currently felt like. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at his companion, yelling against the glass:

'What is it? What are they talking about over there?'

'I don't know! Professor Tattiebo... Crane, I took the pictures you asked for. D'you want the film now? Only I don't know how to open the door...'

'The film? You took photos of all this? I forgot that entirely, with all the mess.'

'Yeah, everything. Damn, that was intense. The bit where you nearly... I thought you were going to...' Andrew fell silent.

'I think everyone thought I was going to.' Including me at one point, thought Crane. That's why I could never have stayed here. It would too big a risk for everyone else. Best to have quit while I still had control. To have gone down with dignity.  
Too bad no one will know, except a few townsfolk, myself and _him_.

Crane snapped his fingers. There was the solution, right in front of him.

'Professor Crane? What d'you want me to do with the photos?'

'Andrew? Listen carefully, I want you to obey my instructions correctly.'

The young man nodded, rain trickling down his worried round face.

'You will take these photos to the Gotham Gazette as soon as possible. Take Hugh Bentle with you, someone with a position. Go there and ask to paid as much as their top photographers. Tell them you have exclusive material. I'm sure they'll be interested enough when they find out what happened here.'

'I... Yes, Professor. There won't be trouble, will there?'

'Not if you do as I say', growled Crane. The boy gulped and nearly choked on a mouthful of food.

'Are you still listening to me? What are you eating, you idiot?'

'Hushpuppies', stammered Andrew. 'I got hungry. They're leftover from Halloween', he added apologetically.

'Oh, good grief.'

'Would you like one? I could get someone to open the car and −'

'No!I mean - no, thank you. I would like, however, one last little favour from you.'

'Of course, whatever you need.'

'Take Daisy back to Ms Beth's house. Say you have to feed her or something. Then climb up to my room; beneath the floorboards of the bed you'll find a stack of documents. They'll be written in gibberish, don't even try to understand them. Keep them safe. Not a word to anyone. They're very important for me, all my formulae are there. Understood?'

Andrew nodded firmly, looking unhappy.

'Take the papers to Gotham with you and leave them at a small place on the address of 23 Roudrake Street. Leave the man fifty dollars for the safe; tell him I will pay for the safekeeping next time I am out. He will accept this. Don't disappoint me, boy. If it wasn't for me, you'd never get your chance at your newspaper job. Got all that?'

'Fine', said Andrew fearfully. '23 Roudrake Street. Documents. I'll do it.'

'Good. Best of luck!'

'You, too. See you around, I guess?' The man took hold of the mare's reins and hurried away. Nightmare aka Daisy whinnied her farewell in a friendly fashion towards Crane, before setting off at a trot. Crane watched them go, biting his lower lip.

The car opened and the Dark Knight, his expression serious as always, prepared to begin the long drive back to Gotham. He deliberately didn't spare Crane a single glance.

The professor twisted his back to look back one last time at the locals watching them around the square. To his inordinate pleasure people actually waved at him and cheered.  
It had been a good show and he was their Scarecrow, after all.  
The long dark vehicle roared into action. Several nearby crows cawed in alarm and took flight. In a few minutes, the Dark Knight and his passenger were gone from sight.

The crows resumed their seats on the Charleston scarecrows, complaining loudly and ruffling their feathers in the drizzle.

***

'I could very well have killed you. Are you aware of that?' Crane told the silent vigilante smugly.

'I recall. Then why didn't you?' retorted Batman smoothly.

'I... I didn't want... It didn't feel right. Um. And it wouldn't have served a purpose. The moral victory was already mine. Anyway, you'll have to live with the fact that _I_ defeated _you_ for the rest of your life now! Doesn't that scare you?'

'It terrifies me, Crane', said Batman dully.

'I'm serious here. You owe me, Bat. You were at _my_ mercy. Just you remember that', muttered Crane sullenly. The silence set in again.

'Do you want to hear an interesting mystery, Crane?' asked Batman as they drove across the narrow local road, massaging his sore throat absentmindedly.

'If you must', replied Crane miserably.

'Recently a large amount of money went missing in Gotham. Approximately ten thousand dollars were stolen. Unfortunately, the amount can not be searched for as the owner is unwilling to report his loss. I am sure he has his own reasons.'

'Oh, damn', said Crane. He didn't like where this tale was leading.

'Yes. It's a shame that the money will never be recovered.'

Crane looked at him in surprise. The vigilante continued in a peculiar tone of voice, as if he was stifling a laugh:

'However, there is as much charity as there is greed. The Mayor tells me some kind-hearted soul anonymously donated approximately ten thousand dollars for the repairs of the local school. What a stroke of luck for the town. It is certainly an example that gives hope for this world.'

The Dark Knight grinned at Crane, who was blushing furiously in mortified embarrassment.

'That was...' Batman hesitated. It was very easy to inadvertently insult the Scarecrow. 'That was a very noble gesture.'

'It was an _empty_ gesture', said Crane stiffly. 'It will hardly be enough. That town is going down in any case. It will need much bigger investments, and much bigger publicity, if it wants to survive.'

'It appears it will be getting a fair amount of publicity when tomorrow's papers are printed. I saw that young photographer rushing off suddenly. As for investments, I am certain that someone with the right ideas will come up soon enough. It requires a little will, a little persuasion and a lot of money; that's all. All easily acquired if you ask the right person.'

Crane glanced around at the extremely expensive-looking interior of the vigilante's car. He wondered if the Dark Knight had many financial supporters to his cause. He toyed briefly with the amusing image of colourful sponsorship advertisements plastered all over the Batman's car, before telling himself firmly that he was raving.

'I think I know someone who, by all accounts, must have friends in very high places', he said pointedly to the dark-clad driver.

'Yes. I think I do, too. What can be arranged, will be done.'

'Ah. Good', said Crane in satisfaction. 'And, erm, thank you.'

Batman gave Crane a brief penetrating stare as he drove slowly through the fields. He frowned at the thin lunatic and said quietly:

'But you had intended to destroy them at first, I gather? They say they had let you use their laboratory. _We_ both know why. What did you do with the toxin in the end, Crane?'

'I told you. I had a change of mind. No need to rub it in. The toxin is hidden where no one will find it.'

'Where?'

'Let's not go digging up the past, alright?'

'Agreed', said Batman. They reached the more pleasant silence of people who had reached a brief truce.

***

'So how is Ozzie?' asked Crane in a jovial voice. He was getting agitated and bored of this drive; he had forgotten how long it took to get to the main district road.

'Ozzie?' exclaimed the Dark Knight under his breath. He would really have to start calling the Penguin by that name. The self-satisfied little man would no doubt be irritated beyond his wits. The vigilante smiled thinly and told his reluctant passenger:

'Ozzie is as always. He tries to have each foot on a different boat. He now seems to have his hands in almost every major and minor dealing in the city, but has so far steered clear of anything explicitly illegal.'

'You sound so disappointed, Bat.'

'I doubt it will last long. He's still being cautious now. His most recent investment is re-opening the destroyed nightclub on Thoroughfare Avenue. He says he plans to make it _the_ place to be on a Saturday night. He's calling it the Iceberg Lounge, apparently. Very fitting for the Penguin.'

'He's even cashing in on his hated nickname? You've got to admire the man. It'll certainly cause a stir.'

'Yes. And so attract an interested and eager clientele.'

'Hah. Well, he always knew his stuff.'

'Mm', agreed Batman. He spared Crane a quick sideways glance. The scrawny creature was sitting in moody silence, twisting his cuffed hands and spinning a small box.

'What do you have in there?'

'It's just a gift from an old lady. I don't know what's inside, I haven't opened it yet. '

'You are free to do so, if you wish.'

Crane pursed his lips and nodded slowly. He opened the sliding brass latches and reached inside the box, taking out a small item wrapped in one of Ms Beth's silk handkerchiefs.  
It was a pipe made of dark wood.

A spasm briefly twisted Crane's face and he quickly pressed his fists to his eyes. He emitted a small sighing noise that sounded like a dry sob. Blinking and swallowing loudly a few times, he regained his shaken composure.

'What is it?' asked Batman coolly, pretending not to notice the man's behaviour.

'Ah, I... Oh, dear', Crane started, clasping the simple item tightly in his hand. 'It's a rite of passage, I think. A sign of acceptance.'

'From the residents?'

'One of them at least. It's an inside matter, you wouldn't understand', said Crane morosely.

She had given him her pipe!

'One thing I don't understand is what compelled _you_ to take pity on the residents in the first place?'

'They were... benevolent to me. I wasn't pretending to be any much better than I am, but the locals all took me in rather kindly.'

'So you decided to gas them, logically.'

'No, I didn't see it at first. I only wanted to make _them_ pay for what _my_ hometown did to me. So I plotted and lied and sneered down at them, and all the time they showed tolerance. It was as if they honestly wanted me to feel good there. And after a while, I did.'

Crane bowed his head low, making his messy hair cover his face. He felt uncomfortably exposed now. A mere weakling in desperate need of acceptance and belonging.  
They reached the main district road and he craned his neck, staring back at the cornfields. The vigilante interrupted his train of thoughts by inquiring:

'Do you plan to go back?'

'Yes. One day.'

'Oh, yes? When what happens?'

'When I deserve to.'

The vigilante remained silent for several moments, then exclaimed doubtfully:

'And you truly changed your mind? You didn't leave them a nasty surprise in their water supply or something?'

'Yes, I changed my mind! I was ashamed at the time. Why are you questioning me? Haven't my actions spoken enough for me?'

'I am sceptical about your sudden show of remorse. People don't change in such a short period of time. I am _still_ awaiting the moment the Penguin _slips_, and he has been clean for nearly a year. Naturally that I should expect the worst when you pull of a show like that. First you nearly scythe me and then you say you've reformed and what have you. After _barely_ a month at that.'

'A month? It seems ages ago', said Crane emphatically. 'Time ostensibly passes much more slowly outside the city.'

He turned toward the Dark Knight, leaning with one lanky arm on the seat and shaking a bony finger at him.

'It keeps eating and eating away at you, the fear, doesn't it? How do you even live like that?'

'I don't know what you're talking about, but if this is one of your psychoanalytic gibberish I –'

'Euphobia. It means –'

'A fear of hearing good news.'

'Two points for the boy in the front row', snapped the professor. 'You just can't accept that everything turned out alright. You refuse to hear me out, you don't believe the Penguin isn't going to turn to crime again; you expect all the worst before it even happens. Why can't you enjoy the moment? '

'It's easy to say. I have seen things that have taught me to never loosen my guard! One mistake alone can cost the entire city dearly, the city I have a _purpose_ to protect. I can't allow myself to relax when I know there's a chance that the current peace could be washed away at any moment.'

'Look, _maybe_ it _will_ all go down the drain in a few days. Maybe you'll loose that little bit of peace soon enough. But you'll never have _any_ peace at _all_ if you worry away at yourself from the very beginning. I spent my whole life losing; I could eat myself alive out of jealousy when I see how you keep succeeding all the time. I'd give anything for a winning streak like yours. Are you even glad when you win?'

'I _am_ glad. I don't see the purpose of feeling very good about myself just for that, when the next night brings an equal chance of losing all I achieved the night before.'

'Contentment _doesn't_ have to have a _purpose_. Maybe you deserve to relax, after nightly treading a decaying city to clean it from its own mire; how about that?'

'Be quiet, Crane. We're nearly there.'

'You know I'm right.'

'Perhaps. There's nothing to be done about it.'

'Fine. Just you ignore the facts. See where it gets you', muttered Crane, glowering at the Batman. He glanced at the city skyline as they gradually approached the mental institute. He exclaimed quietly:  
'Funny, how unusual it all looks now. Like seeing it again for the first time. The little town was more real, don't you think?'

'Here we are. Take your things, I'll lead you in. This doesn't have to be difficult.'

They got out of the car, which the vigilante had parked several metres before the looming metal gate of Arkham Asylum. Crane's hands were uncuffed and he gingerly picked up his belongings.

'You're right, this doesn't have to be difficult. I turned myself in, in the first place. _I decided._ I want to go in now by myself. Please?'

Batman gazed suspiciously at the gangly professor, wondering why he should believe the man. He sighed. He had had perfectly lucid conversations with two dangerous villains in a very short space of time. Would he have believed that a few days ago?

'Fine.'

Batman stood in front of Crane and suddenly took off one black glove.

'I admit, you are frightening me a little now, Jonathan. When I say this, I mean it. I am very glad to have lost this night against you. Congratulations, for everything you've done. But remember, I'll still be watching.'

He reached out his hand solemnly. Crane gave a surprised intake of breath and reddened.

'Th... Thank you. You want to know something strange? Tonight was the first time I felt content to be just myself.'

He paused for a moment, unsure whether to continue, then blurted out boldly:  
'Me - I wear the mask because I have something to hide from the world. You - you wear it, perhaps, because you have something to show the world.'

'Perhaps', smiled the Dark Knight. 'I certainly _hope_ so. Now go be just yourself in there, and don't disappoint me.'

They shook hands almost amiably, Crane feeling slightly in awe. He was just about to turn to the gate when an idea struck him. He pulled out something from his bag and presented it, bowing in exaggeration.

'A souvenir for you, courtesy of the Scarecrow. Don't drink it all up in one night, promise me.'

'I can't accept −'

'Trust me, you'll enjoy it. Just relax. You _can_ do that, right?'

'Right. Thanks.' The Dark Knight walked back to his car. Before shutting the door, he yelled to Crane:

'No offence to you, Professor, but I hope we won't be seeing each other again very soon. At least not in the usual circumstances. Goodbye and good luck!'

'Hah', said Crane. He slowly made his way to the gates, pausing right in front of them to glance one last time at the dark sky as a free man.

'I can't see the stars here. There used to be so many back home in Charleston, every night; here there's only one or two. There should be an important philosophical statement to make out of this fact, but I'm out of ideas for one night. How about you?'

The car was gone. Crane shook his head. Quick little thoughts came unbidden into his tired mind. He could run now, make his way elsewhere and never be found. He could hide and discreetly collect materials to set up a new lab. He could...

He could fail miserably again and be dragged in like a dog, like he always was - except this one single time. The only plan which had worked perfectly, the unexpected day when people had cheered for _him_. He was still perhaps little more than a lunatic obeying his self-destructive instincts, but this one night he could walk in with his head held straight.  
Like a man.  
Finally.

Jonathan Crane closed his eyes and pressed the intercom firmly.

A few minutes after he had gone inside, a large black car drove out behind the bend in the road, where it had been positioned out of sight to watch the thin man's decision. Gotham's vigilante took off down the road, nodding slightly to himself and wearing a genuine smile of contentment.


End file.
